Niwa
by smallish
Summary: Sasuke and Naruto. The Uchiha District. Teacups. Only your worst enemy can become your best friend. Light NaruSasu.
1. Niwa

**A/N:** Really weird and creepy. Randomly thought it up. I kinda like it. It takes place before the Sasuke retrieval arc. Kinda Sasu/Naru, but not really. I guess... Sasuke in one of his more unstable moments ('cuz we all know he is), and Naruto trying to help. I guess. I know, OOC, but neh. Niwa means garden. Review, please.  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own.

**Niwa 庭**

The gate creaked open, not even drawing the attention of the pale young man. His eyes were distant, kneeling at the edge of the long-neglected garden, his slender hand cupping the dry, dead rose.

The other boy lingered at the gate, his tan hand resting on the wood.

"This garden was my mother's." The pale boy whispered to no one. The other didn't reply, but took a step in, gate slowly shutting behind him.

_Don't look at me. _

The pale fingers traced the petals, almost caressing them. Their dry stiffness a stark reminder of the once-vibrant color, the silky softness. The life.

The tan, golden-haired boy sat next to the kneeling boy. His bronze-skinned hand clasped over the pale one, stilling it.

_Don't touch me. _

The golden boy could feel the tension in the longer, more slender hand. After a long moment he let go.

"I'll make tea."

He stood, leaving the pale boy exactly where he had been when he had arrived and entered the traditional house, kicking off his shoes and confidently making his way to the kitchen as if he had done it a dozens of times before. He had.

_Don't love me. _

The slender fingers were trembling now, feeling the dead petals.

Everything was dead.

The golden boy returned shortly, standing on the engawa, holding a tray with two steaming tea cups. He didn't call the other boy's name. The pale one, despite his stillness, was aware of the presence. With a small clink, the tray was set on the wooden flooring and with a slight shuffle the golden boy sat next to it, one cup wrapped in a wide, broad hand.

_Don't look at me, don't touch me, don't love me. If you do you'll die. _

"It must have been beautiful once." The golden boy said.

The slender fingers closed around the rose, easily destroying it. Something prickled uncomfortably into the hand, but the owner did not notice.

"Yeah."

_And I'll smile, watching your blood soak my hands, knowing it was me._


	2. Shiba

**Disclaimer:** Let me tell you something about common sense...  
**A/N:** Hm... Yeah, I've decided to make this sort of into just a bunch of semi-related drabbles on Sasuke and Naruto, all taking place at the Uchiha complex. I'm pretty much using this to test out writing styles and aspects. This one was supposed to be an exercise on describing the characters' surroundings... but it just didn't turn out that way. Oh well. I think I like how it turned out anyway. I hope it isn't confusing—I'm trying to avoid saying their names unless in dialog (mostly for fun and a bit of challenge) so I made up analogies.  
Also, I'll consider any challenges sent my way, so long as they aren't too constricting. I want to keep this fairly serious, but I'm up to very light shonen-ai. So read and enjoy/hate.  
As always, reviews will be fearfully read, and suggestions very much appreciated.

**Shiba ****芝**

The pale boy sat on the open engawa, bare feet dangling over the edge, toes touching the cool dirt. He was leaning slightly against a pillar, dark eyes closed. He did not move as familiar footsteps—he had grown to know those patterns, the way they slapped against the floor a bit too loudly, the almost rolling sound they made as he walked, and whenever the intruder/visitor was nervous he would shuffle a bit—approached him, turning the corner of the house, hesitating as the shorter boy spotted the taller, still one, then continuing until he was next to him and taking a seat, feet also dangling over the edge of the wooden platform.

Without opening his eyes, he mutely pushed one of the teacups at his side to the visitor. A soft scuff, and he knew that it had been picked up. The pale boy hadn't known for a fact that the shorter, brighter boy would come today, his body had simply pulled out two teacups from the cabinet on its own and had poured the hot flavored water in both of them by its own accord. The pale boy studied his own breathing for a moment; a bit too shallow, and if he thought about it too much he felt like he was suffocating. The brighter boy at his side was taking full breaths; not loud or anything that would only serve to anger the volatile pale boy, but his natural breathing. He wasn't suffocating at all.

The pale boy cracked his eyes the tiniest bit open looking out at the yard. This part of it was simply grass. Like the garden, it had been neglected. Green grass grew rampant and tall. He could see a few weeds, thistles and dandelions, poking through the otherwise perfect parade of long green blades.

Sighing, he opened his eyes fully and glanced at the boy next to him—short, blond, and altogether energetic; a stark contrast to his tall, raven-haired, almost worn-out companion. The bright boy didn't have the same dark and heavy burden that the pale one did.

The boy was sipping his tea in an almost infuriatingly innocent way, his gaze nonchalant as he studied the—now warped—wooden fence that had once been perfect: a vibrant golden-red color, it's grain a beautiful pattern, shining in the sunlight. Now it was dull, the grain seeming to outline ghastly faces, the color long-ago bled out. The pale boy knew that, on the fifty-first panel to the left, if one looked close enough, a bloodstain was still visible.

There were many bloodstains. Not only in this house, but throughout the District, and he knew that the only reason he still lived there was because he had been bound here by the demanding souls of the fallen—demanding that he avenge them, that _he_ be the one to watch that man's chest rise and fall for the last time. It had to be him. He would be bound to this house, District, as long as he was still in the village—and maybe even when he wasn't.

One bloodstain, one he hadn't seen in years but knew exactly what it looked like, was hidden behind two locked double doors. The bright boy had once asked what they led to. When he had seen how the pale boy's shoulders tensed and turned away, he had known never to ask again.

The blond boy now noticed the dark eyes focused on him and tilted his head to the side in a silent question. The pale boy turned away sharply, dark hair falling into his face.

The tan arm slipped around his slender shoulders—an action only _he_ could get away with, anyone else would have been snapped at and possibly struck—and a bright grin adorned his face.

"Hey bastard, what's your problem?"

"Moron." The pale boy snorted.

_Are you okay?  
_

_I'm fine._

A blond head rested on his shoulder, and the pale boy denied the urge to shoot him an exasperated look.

"It's a nice day out." The bright boy proclaimed.

The pale boy supposed that if he really thought about it, in the eyes of a stranger, it was. But he didn't think of days as 'nice' anymore. Not since he was eight.

"Y'know," The blond continued, "if you weren't so sulky you might be almost tolerable."

This time the pale boy's eyes gave him a sidelong glance. He hated those blue eyes. They were so innocent and bright, so unlike his own dark eyes.

His mother once said he had pretty eyes.

"Don't give me that look. I'm being serious here. You might _almost_ be a decent guy."

And for some reason, a tiny smile found its way onto the pale boy's face. He would never admit to smiling—ever—but there it was, for that bright, innocent boy to see. The blond's playful smile was replaced by a genuine happy one. Those tiny smiles were worth all of this.

The arm fell away from his shoulders, and the sudden loss of contact and warmth made him feel like he was drowning in darkness again, suffocating. He tried to cling to that rapidly fading bit of light. Tried. But failed. It seemed like he failed at everything, even at things he succeeded in. No one was ever there to praise him; not anyone that mattered.

Not anyone he wanted to prove something to—that he could be strong too—but no longer could.

The bright boy was leaning back on his hands, gazing up at the sky, humming, seemingly unaware of his companion's thoughts. But he had learned to read the pale boy, very slowly.

"Yeah, it's a real nice day out. I'm going for a walk. Wanna come?"

The pale boy shook his head, leaning against the pillar again.

"Alright." The blond put all his weight on his hands and swung his legs onto the engawa. "I'll see you later."

The pale boy listened to him walk off—feet slapping a bit too loudly against the wood—and he sat up straight, glancing over his shoulder at the other boy, before facing forward again. His words made the shorter boy stop.

"I hate you, Naruto."

"Ne, Sasuke, you haven't killed me yet." He was smiling.

"Don't worry. I will."

He took a sip of his tea.


	3. Akari Shoji

**Disclaimer:** Do I own Naruto? I'll give you three guesses and two don't count.  
**A/N:** Okay, I did my best trying to describe the house. The interior, anyway. I don't think I did too well. Tell me what you think. Seriously, tell me what you think about my writing style: what you like and don't like and why. I don't typically write like this, but it's kinda fun. Anyway, please review. Below are a couple of terms I used that you may not be familiar with.__

Irori: Irori are a type of traditional sunken hearth common in Japan. Used for heating the home and cooking food, irori are essentially square pits in the floor with a pot hook, or jizaikagi. These hooks generally were hollow bamboo tubes containing an iron rod, with an attached lever, often shaped like a fish, that would allow the pot or kettle to be raised or lowered. (wikipedia) Tatami surrounding Irori indicates a wealthy household.  
_Fusuma:_ Similar to shoji; a sliding door made of heavy, opaque paper, often used to change the size of a room.

**Akari Shoji ****明かり障子**

The silence of the house was broken by the slapping of feet on wood—perhaps the only human sound in the entire District. The creator of those sounds, a short blond with blue eyes, frowned at the silence. Silence meant one of two things: either the owner of the house (well, District really) was absent, or the owner was not in a good mood. His frown deepened as he hoped for the former.

He stalked down the corridor, hesitating as he came across the only non-traditional doors in the house. He had never gone through those doors. Ever. They were locked, sealing away some painful memory that wasn't really forgotten.

That wasn't the only door that was never to be opened.

The blond stopped at one door in particular. This was another door that was never to be opened. The owner had found him once about to open the door, fingers resting on the wood of the fusuma, the paper door patiently awaiting the gentle flick of wrist that would open it. A pale hand had grasped his wrist very firmly before he had the chance. The owner had not snapped or reacted in a way that the shorter boy had expected him to. Instead, in a sombre, almost wistful, voice he was informed never to open any of the closed doors.

Curiosity could be called both a blessing and a curse. The blond asked what that particular door led to. There had been a strange expression on the pale boy's face as he answered in the same wistful tone he had been speaking. It led to his brother's room. He had let the blond's wrist go and turned to walk down the hall, gesturing for the shorter boy to follow.

The golden boy continued down the hallway. He had been told not to open that door. He would obey that request. Partly out of fear of the many possible injuries that could result from disregarding the request, part out of—he was reluctant to admit it—respect. If only for sensitive matters.

Perhaps that was why he frequently arrived unannounced. There were too many rooms that were never opened. Too little life in such a large area. He liked to think it was nothing more than that.

The boy continued on his way. After three paces, the floor creaked under his weight. It was rather strange; such a beautiful, traditional house was largely neglected. The owner did not have the heart to keep up with maintenance. He walked down the seemingly endless corridor: one forever-closed fusuma after another, after another, after another. Finally there was a break in the dizzying pattern. A fusuma had been pushed open, as it often was, leading to the kitchen area.

It was a large room, but did not hold his quarry. In the center was an irori, a layer of dust on it, another sign of neglect. The Village was rarely cold, and the owner rarely cooked with it. It had long ago fallen out of use. The tatami surrounding the sunken square was battered and needed to be replaced.

The only sign of regular use was the table, which at the moment was clean, and the small stove. How sad, the boy thought, that such a place had fallen to a dismal state. Had he not known better, he would think it abandoned. When the greatest fell, they would always make a terrible impact. That impact could, perhaps, do far more devastating things than the greatest who caused it. Or maybe not.

The blond turned away from the stove and his musings, and padded over to the last door that he was allowed to open. It was partially closed, and he wrapped his fingers around the wooden edge, sliding it open softly. It was the living room; another large room, less neglected than the others. Bookcases lined the walls, laden with scrolls and heavy volumes. A TV was tucked in the corner, looking as if it had not been touched in ages. He wondered if it still worked. There was a coffee table, several weapons laid out on it, as if they were forgotten suddenly, in the middle of organization or cleaning or sharpening. Just behind that small table was a blue-gray couch. It wasn't very large, and upon it was his quarry, fast asleep.

The slender boy was laying on his couch, legs curled up slightly so his form would fit on the piece of furniture. Bandages were tied awkwardly around his left hand. Ah. So that was it. The blond returned to the kitchen, grabbing a rag and bowl of water and fresh bandages. He returned to the room and the pale boy was still asleep, chest moving slowly, and he looked almost child-like in this state. Placing the bowl on the coffee table, he gently took the pale, bandaged hand in his own and slowly began to remove the white bindings. The blond winced at the sight of the battered hand, already scabbing over, but calmly dipped the rag into the bowl of lukewarm water and gently began to dab at the bloodied hand, attempting to clean it.

At the contact, the sleeping boy opened his dark eyes, his slender eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"What are you doing?" He asked sleepily.

"Cleaning your hand because a bastard like you can't figure out how to do it yourself." Was the falsely harsh reply. A few long moments passed, the blond mutely washed away the last of the dried blood and began to re-wrap the pale hand. Black eyes followed his every movement. He tied off the bandage, satisfied with his own work. It wasn't expertly done but better than before, having two hands to aid him rather than one.

"You shouldn't train until you pass out." The blond said, feeling strangely grown up, "It's not good for you."

"It takes longer each time."

"That's not what I meant."

There was no reply to this, and the pale boy did not look at him, instead studying his damaged hand, fingers twitching.

The blond stood. "Go back to sleep. We have a mission tomorrow and I don't want you to slow me down." It was meant as a joke, but somehow contempt slipped into his voice. He turned and left the room, the house, the District. Why did he have to be like that? And people said he was the moron! Was that boy so blind he couldn't see the people _there _for him?

Or did he not want to?


	4. Yane

**Disclaimer:** Kishimoto-sama has all rights to Naruto.  
**A/N:** Just a random idea. I'm not sure if I like it, but meh. And can I please get reviews? It's encouraging... I'm a review junkie, and it only takes a few seconds to write something... Oh, watch out for falling fluff this time 'round.****

Yane **屋根**

In the Hidden Village of Leaves, in one corner, tucked away and scarcely touched by humans, was a dead District. If one were to look closely, signs of battle could be seen: a cracked emblem; a bloodstain. In this District was one particular house, larger than the rest (which were of significant size as it was), more elegant, beautiful, and rich. It was long neglected. The pathway leading from the gate to front entrance was cracked, weeds growing within the crevices; the garden was dead, albeit laced with the hardier plants. The engawa, lazily wrapping around the house, was somewhat worn and in certain spots it would creak.

This once-regal house had fallen to its sad state of neglect, not likely to regain its splendor. Only one person lived in all of the District: a tall, pale boy who's black eyes reflected the loneliness and sadness of his home.

This pale, lonely boy was not one that often contemplated things—that would too-often lead to things he didn't want to think about—nor was he one to lay around rather than train and become stronger. But today, he was on his roof, the roof of that neglected, large house, staring up at the blue sky, the white clouds, and the sun that was too bright, but he wouldn't/couldn't look away.

He did not like to admit he knew why he enjoyed reclining upon the slightly slanted roof of his home. He didn't like it, for the simple fact that it hurt to say he knew. When he had been young—four of five, he wasn't sure—his elder brother had helped him up onto the roof. It was a ritual that persisted; after a particularly grueling mission, the siblings would find their way onto the roof. The younger would sometimes talk incessantly—he had been so talkative back then—or he would simply enjoy the presence of his older brother, who was always so distant. They would smile. He remembered the times when he could smile and joke only in a blurred way; or simply lay back and contemplate things—he hadn't been afraid to think of things and why things were the way they were back then.

Then everything died.

For two years he had not been able to get onto the roof. For two years he would try over and over to get onto the roof and every failure stung. When he was eleven he had finally managed to pull his small body onto the sun-warmed shingles and he had laid there and tried not to think of why he wanted to be on the roof.

He refused to believe that his brother, kind and warm, was the same person that killed everything. He knew that was a lie, but sometimes, when he was on the roof, he could pretend. For a little while. Until he came down.

He, now twelve, laid upon the warm shingles, eyes closed, arms folded behind his head. One could mistake him for being asleep. Like always, he was positioned above a soft bit of ground, so that if he fell he would not be too badly hurt. He had never fallen. It was a habit that his brother insisted upon, even though both siblings knew that even if the younger fell, the elder could catch him.

The warmth of the sun was quite comforting to the pale boy, who so often felt cold. Like a warm embrace. It made him feel just a little bit less alone. The tiles under him had been heated by that same sun and now he could feel their heat soaking through his shirt. Nice...

He shifted to his side, eyes half-open, looking at the ruined yard, but in his mind's eye he saw a manicured lawn, grass cut even, flora bright and lively. When he was on the roof, he could pretend.

He closed his eyes again, and this time he really did fall asleep.

"Sasuke!"

A violent flinch, and his eyes flew open—if one looked closely, they were red—and he was falling. He took in a sharp breath twisting his body in an almost cat-like way and landing gracefully on the grass, facing the engawa and the intruder. His surprise did not show and his eyes were black once more. He coolly glared at the startled boy in front of him.

"What, moron?"

This boy was smaller than the first one, tanner, with blond hair rather than raven, with blue eyes rather than black.

"Did you just jump down from the roof?"

The pale boy rose a brow. He was not going to admit he fell, for the first time in his life, due to this utter moron.

"What do you _want_, loser?"

And, as the pale boy predicted, the tan boy scowled. "Well sor-ry for coming by to say hi."

"No one makes you come." His tone was icy and he himself did not like the truth in his words. No one made him come. He came himself.

He did not wait for a reply, instead shifting for a better angle and gently leaping onto the roof again. Only a year ago it seemed so high up, now it was an easy jump. He shifted, trying to find a comfortable spot.

He was about to close his eyes, but the other boy, the dumb, stubborn, tanned one, was attempting to clamor onto the room. And not quite succeeding. Automatically, a scowl settled onto the boy's pale face and he grabbed the other boy by the forearms, hauling him up onto the roof. He hadn't meant to do that.

Before he knew it, that boy was sitting next to him, shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions, but eyes meeting.

"I didn't need your help bastard."

He saw the words that were truly there and hated them. He wished the said words were the true ones.

His dark eyes narrowed coldly, and he found a spot higher up on the roof. Turning so his back was to the shorter boy, he lay back down.

And he heard a rustle next to him.

Lifting his head, he craned his neck to see over his shoulder. He blond boy was next to him, laying on his back, unknowingly mimicking the position the pale boy had been in earlier with his arms folded behind his head. The pale boy rested his head back down.

Only him. Only he could get away with infuriating the pale boy and mere moments later make him forget about it.

"If you don't need my help, you shouldn't screw up so much."

He closed his eyes, assured by the fact that the blue-eyed boy was next to him, up on the roof.

And this time, he didn't have to pretend.


	5. Kanken

**Disclaimer:** Kishimoto-sama is doing a fine job of writing Naruto himself. If I owned it, it would just be yaoi. All the time. And as you can see, rather than yaoi we get shonen-ai hints that are few and far between. Taking an educated guess, I'd say I don't own Naruto.  
**A/N: **Just exploring Sasuke's 'I sooooooo hate you—OMG! Are you _okay!_' complex. Okay, I over-exaggerated, but you can't deny that _he_ denies he's got friends. Except for the Valley of the End. 'You're my best friend! Now die.' Gotta love it.**  
**

**Kanken ****関鍵**

There was a soft click as he turned the key and pushed the door open. He closed the door behind himself and habitually flipped the lock. How many times had he passed through those doors alone? To an empty house?

He walked through the halls, and as he passed the study he had to force his eyes to the ground lest he see the calender and thus what day it was.

He knew anyway.

He had known all through solo training. He had known while waiting upon the bridge. While his teacher gave a poor excuse, while he had team training, while the pink-haired girl on his team tried (and failed) to make conversation with him.

He had seen his teacher give him a slightly worried look. Had he known? Of course he knew. For all his ineptitude with time, he would know of _this_ day. He decided he hated his teacher. With his too-knowing glances and playful smiles and horrible excuses. And that thrice-damned understanding and concern of his that was never _really_ spoken or shown, but anyone with a decent IQ could see it. There was no other word for it. It was hate.

He hated his other teammates as well: the pink-haired girl and the dumb blond. The pink-haired girl was a hypocrite... and too gentle... and really she was too nice of a girl to be a ninja. She didn't really deserve to die, even if he hated her.

The blond was the worst, he decided. His pure idiocy, and... He just hated him beyond the way words could describe.

He stopped halfway to his room and changed route. He would go to the living room. He could find something... to distract him.

Moments later he reached his destination, but his eyes landed on the couch and he felt far too tired... Slowly, he sat down on it, then giving in to fatigue, he closed his eyes, praying he'd fall asleep quickly.

_Blood... everywhere._

"Little brother..."

He could smell it, taste it, feel it. It forever stained his skin and clothes and no matter how many times he showered it wouldn't come out.

There were two bodies—no. Five. He felt a strange feeling in his chest and let out a strangled sound. Those three... had never been there before.

One had pink hair. She was face-down with a sword through her chest. He could not see her eyes, but knew they were staring at him.

The other had tall, messy, silver hair. The upper left side of his head was gone. He had only one eye now. No—he always had one eye... The other belonged to someone else...

And the last one... He didn't want to acknowledge the last corpse. Didn't want to see the blond hair... This one wasn't bloody or mutilated in any way. But it was dead.

He sobbed and stumbled backwards, bring his hands to his face. He felt something warm and sticky at the contact.

Horrified, he pulled his hands away. They were coated in blood. In their_ blood._

"Little brother..."

"Sasuke!"

He nearly shot up from the couch, but was firmly pressed down by two hands. His eyes zeroed in on the figure above him. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Tan skin. Whiskered cheeks. He wasn't dead...

"What are you _doing_ here?" He sneered, hoping his relief didn't show in his voice.

The tanned boy blushed. "Um... Nothing... I mean... You just seemed down today."

"I don't need your help." He snapped, angered by the unspoken words.

There was no reply as the tan boy stood and turned as if to leave. The pale boy felt a weird sort of panic, as if death awaited the blond just outside the door.

"How did you get in?" It was the only neutral question that could come to mind. The blond turned.

"I picked the lock on your door."

"You know how to do that?" He couldn't help the surprise embedded in his voice.

"Kakashi-sensei taught us that last week, remember?"

"...Right." He felt like he was breathing normally now. "Right..."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

He looked up sharply, molding his face back into a mask. "Yes."

"Do you want me to stay here, bastard?" There was worry in that voice, and he tried very hard to hate it.

He didn't know the answer, so he remained silent.

The tan boy left. He had an insane desire to call for him, but he couldn't. He stared at his hands instead. They were their usual white, shaking slightly. Even though he couldn't see it, he knew blood was still there.

He heard a solid clink before him. Slowly he lifted his head.

"I thought maybe you need a glass of water." There was hesitance in that voice, and even though he could not see him, he knew he was there.

He didn't take the glass because he knew he was shaking too badly. There was a familiar creak as the visitor settled into the armchair next to the couch.

"Naruto." Another creak as the boy shifted to look at the paler of the two. "There's a spare key in that old plant pot. Quit picking the lock. Someone will see you and haul your dumb ass off to jail."

"That's not going to happen, Sasuke-bastard. It'd make you too happy."

He couldn't even manage a smirk, but he felt better. He picked up the glass. His hands had stopped shaking.

"More than you know."


	6. Sudare

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Naruto, I'd hire Kishimoto-sama to write the story for me.**  
A/N:** I had sooo much fun writing this, particularly when Sasuke and Naruto are joking around. (For the record, they're just being sarcastic to each other. That's why they act a bit OOC. 'Ruto's mocking Sasuke's upbringing.) This was pretty much used to see if I can define foreign words _within_ a story. Hopefully by the end of this, you'll know what sudare, minka, hashi, seiza, and kotatsu are. I assume you already know engawa and irori (which I defined anyway).

**Sudare ****簾**

It was chilly out, the beginnings of autumn just clawing into the village, threatening a cold winter rather than the usual merely cool one. Brown, orange, yellow leaves littered the yards, sidewalks, streets, sometimes crunching loudly as they were trod upon, often raked into neat piles only for the wind or young children to send the dead foliage flying. The cold temperatures were a nice change of pace, adults agreed, and wondered if it would snow this year.

In the many older complexes, the minka, traditional houses, were adorned by sudare. The decorative screens shielded the engawa from view, allowing light breezes to enter, but forbidding the colorful leaves from littering the wooden verandas.

This was also true for the large, neglected house in a corner of the village, the silk screens in surprisingly good condition, although worn at the edges. The sole occupant of this house, a fair-skinned boy with raven-black hair and pitch eyes, frowned—not quite pouting—as he stood upon the engawa, fingers brushing the silk. On the opposite side there were images of a dragon and tiger fighting in gold stitching upon the deep red background. The side he saw was plain—a blank canvas. As he trailed his fingers leisurely down the silk, feeling the bamboo slats hidden within to weigh it down, he recalled when he was six seeing his mother put these up and explaining that the village would have a cold winter that year.

She had been an elegant lady, like a phoenix. Only she didn't come back. A cool breeze caused the sudare to flutter lightly and his hand dropped away. Maybe, then, she was like a willow; a weeping willow. He closed his eyes and sighed as another breeze danced across his skin.

He opened his eyes again, and shuddered. The sudare lined the entire engawa. It was a limitless, shadowed hallway, beckoning him forward to swallow him whole. He took a step.

"Ah, what a lovely day, isn't it?" He stopped at that voice, the beckon entirely forgotten. A flicker of a smile—so quick it could be missed—and he turned toward the teasing voice. The sudare was just short enough for an outsider to see his feet. He spoke to the unseen visitor,

"And who is it that calls?" His smirk unseen and fully intending to win this game.

"Surely someone unworthy of you." Was the lightning-fast reply, silently accepting the challenge of the game.

"Of that I have no doubt, oh dear _child_." He pushed the nearest flap aside with the back of his hand, just enough for him to peer out at his visitor. The boy was standing a fair distance away, but his voice was resonate enough to carry to the other boy hiding within the engawa. The fair-skinned boy knew that, while he could see his caller, the caller could not see him. His mind flashed back to _Genji Monogatari_, a novel he had never finished, now sitting in dust upon a shelf.

"Perhaps you _should_ doubt it, oh kind _sir_." The caller said a bit too snappily. The raven-haired boy's smirk widened at his friend's (did he dare admit it?) inability to take a taunt. He paused for a moment as if considering the boy's words, and perhaps he was, but his eyes studied the other boy.

He was shorter, with tanned skin, a round and child-like face, more solidly built, a shock of messy blond hair that stuck up everywhere, and bright blue eyes, and distinctive whisker-like markings on his face. He was a sharp contrast to the other boy; the yang to the yin. The boy standing on the engawa was pale and tall, a narrow and sinewy frame, with raven-black hair that spiked up naturally in the back. His face was pale and angular and narrow, with two mocking black eyes. The yin to the yang.

"Consider me undoubted." He said at last. He saw the yang's eyes narrow. He snorted in amusement. In all reality he was surprised at the blond's ability to follow etiquette, even if the situation was skewed. He had not advanced a single step since 'the conversation' began.

Perhaps the fool was more learned than he had initially thought? The yin continued in his false-sweet tone, before the yang could reply.

"But do come forward, unworthy one."

The blond mumbled something, which the pale boy had no doubt was _very_ rude, and stalked forward grumpily. As he approached the engawa, the yin lifted the flap enough for a human body to pass through in an effective invitation to join him on the engawa.

The yang scowled, stepping onto the wooden platform after quickly toeing off his sandals. The fair-skinned boy smirked softly as he caught the amusement in the blue eyes.

"What are you doing here, moron?" The yin asked, abandoning all pretenses now that their game had passed.

"I'm hungry, you bastard. Now feed me."

Giving an amused 'hn', which most certainly was not a chuckle, he nodded. Casting one last glance at that chilling 'hallway', the pale boy stepped inside with the blond boy at his heels. They slipped down the empty corridors without a word between them and soon they were in the kitchen.

"Hey, do you think it'll get cold enough for you to use the irori?" Genuine curiosity was in his voice. The pale boy looked over at the kettle hanging from the ceiling above the fire pit. There was a thick layer of dust, accumulated from the many years of disuse.

"No." And he turned back to the only part of the kitchen he used; the stove, table, and the cabinets. "I have ramen." And those words were enough for the blond to forget everything else in the world. The pale boy watched, _nearly_ amused as the shorter boy almost ripped the cabinet doors off in attempt to get to his favorite food. He took a seat at the kotatsu, low table.

The blond hesitated as he grappled the cup ramen.

"Hey, do you want some?"

"My, my... Have you learned manners, loser?" His head was resting on his interlaced fingers, smirking devilishly.

"Hey, I was just being nice, jackass." The blond scowled at his friend/enemy.

His smirk smoothed out into a half-smile—it wasn't at all apologetic—and said, "I'll pass."

Soon they were both sitting at the table; the pale boy was sitting in seiza, with his legs under him in a more formal fashion, the blond was sitting cross-legged, inhaling the noodles at such a speed that the taller boy was surprised he didn't choke.

At long last he finished the noodles, placing the cup on the table with his hashi—chopsticks—laid across it and sighed in a satisfied way. He regarded his host, then looked down at the kotatsu thoughtfully.

"I guess if it does get cold you can always use the heater in there, huh? You've got one right?"

Black eyes flickered to the center of the table where a scarcely-used heater was hidden within, as with all kotatsu. "Of course, idiot." He didn't say the last word with as much conviction as usual, the thought _'Why does he care?'_ flitting through his head.

"Eh... I gotta go. Iruka-sensei is taking me to Ichiraku Ramen." The significance of this statement was not lost on the paler boy, but he simply rolled his eyes. The blond was a food vacuum. Especially with ramen. The shorter boy stood and gave a goofy grin before turning away. The black-haired boy stayed where he was. Just before the blond left he stopped and said,

"Thanks for the ramen, jackass." He quickly disappeared. Out of sight, but not out of mind.

_'Why does he care?'_ The fair-skinned boy wondered again. He sighed and stood, pushing the thought away and picked up the empty ramen cup that his friend/enemy had purposely left on the kotatsu and carelessly threw it in the trash.

He was alone again. With nothing more than the kotatsu and the chilling call of the sudare-clad engawa.


	7. Ame

**Disclaimer:** Let's all be glad I don't own Naruto, 'cuz I use way too many clichés.**  
A/N:** Officially the first time I've made references to the other drabbles. Definitely not in chronological order, though. This is the longest one so far. But only just a bit longer than Sudare. I'm not sure how much I like this one...

**Ame ****雨**

Rain.

It wasn't such a bad thing when you weren't caught out in the thickest of it all.

Two figures were lightly sprinting down abandoned streets, the downpour making them blotched marks of blue-black and orange.

The smaller of the two—the one dressed in an almost atrocious shade of orange—stumbled slightly. Almost automatically, the taller boy—dressed in a dark blue shirt with a single red and white fan on the back—reached out with a hand to steady him. Neither missed a beat, staying at their constant rate.

After a moment, the taller boy pulled slightly ahead—he could have outran the shorter boy anytime, leaving him alone in the rain, but never did for reasons he didn't think about—and unlatched a gate, holding it open just long enough for the orange-clad boy to slip through before releasing it and letting it swing back on it's own. The shorter boy had picked up a small silver object from a plant pot and was now making for the front door. The taller boy beat him to it, though, sending him a small smirk as if to say 'I win', and unlocked the door with his own key. The shorter boy scowled and tossed the spare key back into the pot before following the other boy inside.

Inky locks clung to the taller boy's pale face, and he scowled as he ran a hand through his soaked hair, toeing off his sandals and stepping onto the wooden floor, turning slightly to watch the small blond boy. When finally the blond stepped up next to the taller boy, he sighed and glanced at his companion and said,

"Do you think Kakashi-sensei planned this?"

The taller boy could only humor him and say, "What makes you think that?"

"Because! We get back from our mission and he does that all-knowing thing and says 'looks like it's going to rain!' and he does that thing where he disappears—and then it starts raining and of course _Sakura_ lives like... two blocks away from where we are and she won't let me come over and of course _I_ live furthest away—"

"Naruto." The taller boy sighed as he regarded the rambling blond.

"What?"

"Kakashi knows everything. Deal with it."

"Oh..." The shorter boy looked dejected before he shook it off and quickly asked, "So do you think he planned this?"

"What is 'this'?"

"Us getting caught in the rain! And forcing me to go to _your_ house." He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'bastard'.

"I'm sure not even Kakashi is cruel enough to deliberately plan for me to have to put up with _you_." The other boy countered. "C'mon." He pressed the palm of his hand between the blond's shoulder blades and gave a firm shove. The blond stumbled forward and sputtered.

"H-hey! What was that for?"

"You were taking too long. Let's go."

Mumbling something rude, the blond followed the fair-skinned boy. For a moment he was confused when, instead of turning for the kitchen where they usually loitered about, the owner of the house led him to his own room and after a moment he found sweatpants and a t-shirt thrust into his arms. He blinked.

"Sasuke?"

"I don't want you dripping all over my house. There's a shower down the hall. Clean up and change."

"I just came in from the rain. Isn't that like the same as showering?"

The pale boy made an exasperated sound and said, "No. Now go."

"What about you?"

"There's more than one shower in my house." Was all he said by way of explanation. The blond nodded and turned to leave, but stopped as he glanced at the clothes in his arms.

"Sasuke, I can't wear these."

"Why not?" The pale boy looked up sharply.

"Because they have cooties!"

The taller boy reminded himself that he was more mature and simply rolled his eyes.

The blond was pretty sure that he might have seen a bit of amusement.

Shortly later, the smaller boy found himself wearing the other's clothes—they smelled like him too—and attempted to find the kitchen. All he really managed to do was get lost. Again. The house was too big for him to memorize and it seemed entirely possible to get lost and never found. But he knew the raven-haired boy wouldn't let that happen, so he didn't worry.

At long last he found a fusuma, just barely open. His mind stopped. Rewound. Something didn't fit. Finally it all sunk together, the picture complete. He knew where he was. He knew that door.

The door to the brother's room. The door never to be opened. He stepped forward and stood in front of that door, peering through the tiny crack. He could scarcely see anything: a window with a paper screen; a table with discarded items that had never been touched; a folded futon in the corner.

He pulled away and turned back, now that he had his barrings, and pushed the room out of his mind and made for the kitchen. Before he reached the end of the hall, he heard a sigh and turned. The paler boy was stalking toward him, expression torn between amusement and a scowl.

"Did you get lost?"

Without missing a step, the pale boy quickly reached out and with a flick of the wrist the brother's door closed. His expression did not change.

"No! I was—"

"Getting lost?"

"Hmph." He knew to pick his battles. He knew he was lucky the other boy wasn't angry at him for peeking into his brother's room. If he had seen.

They were now level, and the pale boy said, "Come on." as he led the way to the kitchen.

The blond found himself sitting at the kotatsu as he watched the black-haired boy—now also dressed in dry clothes—make tea. He worked in such a perfectly timed way and with such precision that it seemed he wasn't even thinking about what he was doing. In just a few moments, they sat across from each other, each with a tea cup. The blond caught the scent.

Jasmine.

The pale boy was staring at his cup in a distant way—not brooding, just thinking; the blond could tell—his thumb tracing the rim of the clay cup.

"Sasuke." Black tresses shifted as he lifted his head just a tiny bit, "Why do you like tea?" Neither was sure if it was a vague taunt or a real question. The pale boy answered anyway,

"My mother. She would wear jasmine perfume sometimes."

And that was all he said before looking down at his cup again.

The scent of the tea wafted up to the blond again.

Jasmine.

The blond bit his lip as he asked a question, wondering if he would regret it.

"You miss your family, Sasuke?"

_Do you envy me for not having one?_

He didn't receive a reply.

Not that he was surprised.

They both listened to the rain beat against the house, trail down the roof, and fall into puddles. They sat silently, contemplating mothers, missions, and jasmine tea.


	8. Hajimete

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Naruto. But I do own Kishimoto-sama's soul.**  
A/N: **Holy—! Reviews! I'm in shock... But in a happy way. A bit of commentary toward the end. People are always disagreeing over who has it worse—Sasuke or Naruto. I threw in my opinion. Feel free to disregard.

**Hajimete ****初めて**

Thinking back, he found it hard to pinpoint the _exact_ time he had gone from 'loner' to simply 'distant'. The exact time was not something that he or anyone else could ever uncover, but he did know, perhaps, an event a that may have encouraged the change.

Back then he found his two teammates and his teacher all in the general category of 'annoying', but his blond teammate was in the scarcely-used subcategory of 'really annoying'.

He was loud, obnoxious, and seemed to pick things up at the speed of smell. He liked ramen too much, he talked too much, and above all else, acted stupid too much.

It was after a fairly simple, but time-consuming mission he had decided on a whim to just take a short walk before returning home.

It was as he was turning back that he passed some ramen stand, only to see his blond teammate looking frantic. He stopped for reasons unknown—he had a feeling that perhaps he was a masochist and enjoyed being angry—to watch the spectacle.

It did not take long to understand what the predicament was. The moron had overestimated his amount of money. After finally giving up in his search for any coins, dollars, or coupons, the crestfallen boy sighed in defeat. The elderly man who ran the shop simply reminded him he couldn't have ramen unless he had money—he wasn't being cruel, he was just aware he had to run a business.

The blond then smiled in a pained sort of way, insisting it wasn't a big deal before walking off, still with that somewhat distraught expression on his face.

The loner never understood what possessed him to approach the idiot. Maybe he understood? He didn't like to think so.

"Hey. Moron."

The blond turned to face the pale-skinned, dark-haired boy and his face settled into a glower, grumbling out a 'what do you want'.

"Come with me."

It wasn't often that he found time to take pity on another—but dammit, he didn't want the moron to be even more a hindrance.

So, for the first time in years, another person entered the fallen District that was his home. To the blond's credit, he did not make any comments on the lifeless state of his surroundings, simply following the taller boy with mild suspicion. At long last they reached a lackluster home, although once it was quite the opposite of how it existed now.

"Wait here."

And quickly the loner kicked off his sandals and gracefully lept onto the engawa of his home and quickly padding through the corridors and grabbing what he needed before returning to the motionless idiot.

"Here." And he tossed two cups of instant ramen to the shorter boy. For a moment the blond could only stare before glaring up at the dark-eyed boy.

"I don't need charity."

"And I don't need ramen. I'm throwing out trash. You're just a trashcan."

The words were cold, but for a moment those blue eyes looked at him in a way that could only be described as wonderment. Then he smiled slightly, in a lopsided way.

"If you ever need to throw out more ramen, be sure to find me." And with that he gave a half-wave and took a loping stride out of the District, the loner's dark eyes shadowed as they followed his retreating back.

So whenever he found he still had ramen, he would throw it to the blond, and after a short while the blond would actually stay at the pale boy's house as he ate. And then the blue-eyed boy would sometimes follow the dark one home after missions, even if there was no ramen to be had and he would ramble—no matter how many times he was told to shut up.

Somehow, through trial-and-error, he learned the do's and do-not's of the home. Do not open closed doors. Do not ask what is behind the closed doors. Do not mention family excessively, although small comments were okay, sometimes appreciated (he liked to remember, but only in small ways, few and far between).

Somehow, they had grown to a vague, unwritten understanding while within the home. They still flung insults, still said crass words to each other, but they held a recognition. Both were lonely, and could understand that much. The way that they were lonely: they could never fully relate.

_'Better to have loved and lost, then never to have loved at all.'_ It was a debatable saying between the two, but never once was it raised. They were both suffering equally in each of their own rights.

But, that first time, as the fair-skinned boy watched the darker-skinned boy move at an easy lope into the populated areas of the Village, he felt something strange for that almost-thanks and that almost-something.

At least the blond wouldn't complain of hunger the next morning.

He complained anyway.

And the distant boy could only roll his eyes in almost-amusement.


	9. Yami

**Disclaimer:** I'm plotting to kidnap Kimimaro. Anyone want to help?  
**A/N:** I love irony. Especially dramatic irony. Do you like it? This one's for you. Some _brotherly_ ItaSasu, but if you're desperate I s'pose you could just think of it as Uchihacest. Much better than the last two. Yay.Any and all OOCness will be blamed on sleepiness.

**Yami 闇**

The nightmare was already bleeding out of his mind by the time his eyes had flung open to gaze at the dark ceiling and his senses scrambled to tell him that yes, he was still okay and in his room and nothing had happened.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position on his bed, dark bangs falling into his eyes. He took a deep breath and straightened, then began to untangle himself from his blankets. A few moments later, he was faced with quite the dilemma.

He was thirsty.

It was not in his habit to keep water on his nightstand, and so quite logically the only place to get water would be the nearest faucet, which was in the bathroom just around the corner. So logically he should go there.

Unfortunately, the mind can be quite illogical.

He stood, brushing wayward hair out of his eyes, and crossed the room to slide the door open. But once the paper screen had slid back, his hand tightened around the frame and all the illogical parts of his mind came to overbear him.

The hallway was pitch-black.

It was a new moon that night; not even the tiniest stray of silver light flecked the wooden floors. He knew how irrational it was. He knew he shouldn't be feeling what he has feeling. But he couldn't deny it.

At this particular moment, the dark terrified him.

He wasn't always afraid of the dark, only sometimes, when his mind liked to play tricks on him. He knew that the darkness was just as harmless as it's counterpart, light, and really he should _like_ it, because on stealth missions he would have extra concealment. He knew it was childish. But sometimes the dark just scared him, even if he knew nothing would happen. He sometimes felt like the darkness would jump out to drag him away and consume him whole.

And so there he stood, one hand gripping the paper door, his eyes staring out at that absolute darkness. He willed one foot forward.

_"...Nii-san? Can I sleep with you?" _

"Why? What's wrong, Sasuke?"

"I can't sleep."

With a whimper, his knees gave out and he hit the floor hard, arms out before him to break the fall. He shifted back, so he was leaning against the wood of his door and hugged his knees to his chest.

Pathetic.

He bit his lip and rested his forehead on his knees.

He, a prodigy, an heir to a great Clan, should not be afraid of the dark, should not be afraid of _memories_, should not be afraid of anything.

So why was his heart racing?

_"Ihadanightmare." _

There was a soft chuckle at his hurried confession, but it wasn't cruel or mocking.

"What was it about?"

One hand clasped his other wrist tightly, as if willing himself to calm. After a long moment, he felt relaxed and he was content to sit like that, in his own little bubble where he could pretend there was no darkness, listening to the rain pounding outside.

He must have been just drifting off to sleep when he heard something that brought his senses back to full impact and his head snapped up, cold fear dripping through his scalp and into the rest of his body.

Footsteps.

It felt an agonizing century that he could not move, until his mind made a faint connection and it grew to recognition. He knew those footsteps.

Cursing his weakness, he forced himself to stand, but still could not step into the corridor as those footsteps approached.

"Do you always break into people's houses at night?"

The small form that had turned the corner moments before jumped a mile high before he stilled and replied in a hushed voice—darkness always engendered quiet voices—"I only break into _your_ house."

He snorted, but remained silent as he allowed the blond—you couldn't tell in the dark—to get closer.

"What are you doing here? It's the middle of the damn night."

"Oh, does the bastard need his beauty sleep?" But right afterward, "My apartment flooded from the rain. It'll be cleaned up by tomorrow night—"

"But you need to stay somewhere for tonight?"

There was a shuffle of feet and a nod.

"Fine. You can take my room, and I'll—" He hesitated. His eyes flicked to the darkness-soaked halls.

He paused just a bit too long.

"Sasuke... are you...?"

He winced and waited for the laugh and insults and taunts.

Moments passed, and nothing.

Swallowing, he glanced at the other boy. Even in the dark, he could tell that the shorter boy's eyes were blue.

"Hey, Sasuke, we can just share the room."

The dark-haired boy's head snapped back in surprise and on his lips was a protest, but the blond beat him to it.

"I call bed, though."

Immediately his argumentative nature kicked in, "No way. You're a guest. _You_ get the floor."

"I'm the guest, so I should get the _bed_."

Secretly, the taller boy marveled at how the blond could make his embarrassment and fear go away in seconds. Only one other person had been capable of that same feat.

"No way is a loser like you—"

"Fine. Let's share the bed."

For a moment the taller boy was still, then he nodded dumbly. He felt awkward, but climbed back into bed, choosing to lay on the far side of the bed. It occurred to him he hadn't gotten his drink of water, but he wasn't thirsty anymore anyway. Soon another weight was added to the bed.

Moments passed. Silence reigned.

He was just leaving the state of wakefulness when a thick and sleepy voice next to him broke the silence,

"I'll protect you from the darkness." It promised.


	10. Uchi

**Disclaimer:** I want Kimimaro... -sniffle-  
**A/N:** I hope the ending makes sense. I'm not sure if it does. Oh, anticipate a slightly _off_ Naruto.

Uchi **家**

He frowned as he walked onto the engawa, his sock-clad feet not making a sound, his hands hidden in his pockets. Something felt wrong. He couldn't quite place it, almost like the air he breathed was artificial.

He let his feet guide him, only half-caring where he would go. He almost knew, anyway. And when he turned a corner, he wasn't at all surprised to see his best friend sitting with his feet dangling over the engawa in a quite nonchalant fashion.

"Moron. What are you doing here?" He asked with a bit of a smirk.

The blond turned toward him with one of his fake-scowls, but the raven-haired youth simply rolled his eyes and approached the shorter boy. The moment he sat down next to his friend that feeling of _wrongness_ increased, but he tried to ignore it. His eyes scanned the dead grass of his lawn and for some reason he felt his heart clench, as if he missed something horribly, but he ignored that too.

They sat quietly for a short time, not saying a word. The wind blew, but still something felt wrong—the way the breeze felt on his skin seemed fake, and there was no scent of a warm summer day, and he sighed leisurely.

"Let me see your hand."

The taller boy's head snapped back at the request, but for some reason found himself complying and held his hand out to his friend. The blond boy took it, and immediately the raven saw the difference. His own hands were slender and elegantly tapered and deceptively delicate. His friend's were more stout and wide with shorter fingers, and his nails weren't as smooth. But what really stood out was the skin tone. The blond was a deep tan that bespoke of his wild and outgoing nature, while the hand clasped within his was a soft white that hinted his habit of solitude.

"We're so different, but..." The blond shifted their hands so the were palm-to-palm, "really, we're just alike." He slid his fingers between the taller, paler ones and grasped the silent boy's hand.

After a moment, their hands drifted apart, and the pale one stared at his own hand, now resting in his lap.

"Naruto... Did you really think this would be enough?" He murmured.

"Did you?"

His head shot up and locked eyes with his best friend. They were warm. And kind.

"I don't know."

His blond friend smiled and that was warm and kind and friendly too.

"I think... Maybe the only thing enough for you... Is your family...?" He gave him a hesitant glance, as if unsure if he'd crossed a line.

Instead he got silence.

"Or maybe... Just _a_ family?"

The raven-haired boy turned away to stare at the grass.

"A wounded animal will cry for help, Sasuke."

"But a dead one won't." He countered quietly.

"I wouldn't say you're dead..." The blond whispered.

The was a silence and they both sat and felt that false-breeze.

"You're my best friend, Sasuke." The shorter one declared quietly.

Again the taller one locked eyes with him, and this time he felt something horrible again, like he missed something very badly.

"I know... you're the same..." He said this so quietly it was almost inaudible.

The blond shifted to face his friend better and grinned widely.

"We'll do everything together, right? Become Chuunin, then Jounin, then ANBU... but I'm being Hokage by myself. You just stop at ANBU."

The darker one rolled his eyes, but nodded, "I'm not moronic enough to try to be Hokage. Only you are. But yeah. We'll do the rest together."

"Good." He smiled at his pale friend before turning back to gaze at the lawn again. After a moment his voice calmly uttered,

"After all. I'd be sad if you left."

He frowned and turned to his companion; the blunt words were not quite right.

"You would?" He asked, but just as the blond gave him a sad smile, the image began to blur and fade, and he never got an answer.

-

His dark lashes fluttered open and for a moment he didn't understand where he was until a familiar voice spoke to him.

"Awake, Sasuke-kun?"

At those words, the pale teenager became aware of the dull, throbbing pain in his neck and he sighed and replied simply,

"Kabuto."

His onyx eyes sought out the medic and watched as he moved closer.

"You pushed yourself too hard again." Was all he said.

But the teenager simply nodded and closed his eyes, knowing when he woke again, he would be fine. Or as fine as he could be since he had left...

But this time he didn't get to dream of a warm smile, or friendly eyes, or anything other than darkness.

-

**A/N:** I'm afraid this isn't too clear, so I'm going to explain. Everything up to where Sasuke opens his eyes was a dream. The previous drabbles were not dreams, and the next one won't be either. Also; in Sasuke's dream, Naruto represents his subconscious. If you think about it a little/lot everything makes sense. Sort of.


	11. Nemuri

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Naruto, it wouldn't be as much fun to obsess over the characters.  
**A/N:** Well, it seems like everyone got the last chapter! Yay. Ironic story behind this. I came up with this idea in a bout of insomnia. Hm… I've also been thickening the shonen-ai fluffishnessthese last few drabbles. I hope no one minds... But hey, you saw in the summary that there's slight NaruSasu... I notice that sleep is a recurring theme in my stories. Maybe since I'm always tired...

**Nemuri ****眠り**

He had instinctively pulled off his sandals as he entered the house—he wasn't sure why his friend insisted upon the custom if he never cleaned anyway. Maybe for a delusion of life?—and briefly passed through the house itself before stepping onto the engawa when the sole occupant of the house was not found or had greeted his friend (the term 'greeted' here means mere acknowledgment of presence; whether it be by lethal attack or a simple 'hey').

He didn't have to search long. Unlike the interior of the house, it was nigh impossible to get lost on the wooden boards that were, when it came down to it, a big circle. The first sign was a glimpse of black hair, but soon a frown formed on his face as he realized something. His friend was lying on his side, facing the lawn. To most this wouldn't seem so odd, but he knew for a fact his friend would never do this—laying down for any reason impractical was weak, _especially_ lying on your side, which left one quite exposed and unable to readily defend oneself. As he continued in his approach, he realized another strange thing: the other boy was asleep.

Sleeping so openly was another 'weakness' that he had never known his friend to show, and it was such an odd place to take a nap, on an engawa, but then again he was the only person in the entire District; he could do as he pleased. Now he stopped just a few feet away, fully expecting the other boy to jump up and attack him, but it never happened. After a long moment he sat, legs dangling over the edge of the engawa, and still nothing.

After a long moment his eyes began to study his friend and he seemed so much more delicate and fragile than during his waking hours—like a work of porcelain; if he fell too fast and too hard he would shatter and would likely never be whole again.

The boy's legs were curled up slightly, with one arm folded under his head in a makeshift pillow. His thin, pale lips were parted slightly as he breathed. If it wasn't for the slight, steady rise and fall of his chest, one would think him dead.

The thought jolted the observer out of his contemplations with more force than he would like to admit. After all, his friend was already unnaturally pale, a fact enhanced by his black hair; and his face was placid, indicating a lack of nightmares or any other dream. But he was breathing. Slow, shallow, nearly imperceptible, but he was breathing.

It occurred to him then, for the first time, that really his friend was rather… pretty. Lots of girls said he was cute, but cute was a word for bunnies, and puppies, and snuggles, and other such things, but the currently sleeping boy was none of those, just… pretty. The way his skin was always ivory, even though he trained outside, not inside; the way his sable hair seemed to _naturally_ want to spike up in the back. His lips weren't full; they were thin and cracked, but almost seemed to add to his appearance in a way.

Absently, he touched one of the askew black locks, just gently tracing it. But almost as if this was what the sleeping boy had been waiting for, he stirred slightly, turning his face into the crook of his arm, taking a deep breath. Upon seeing this, the observer jerked his arm back as if he'd been burned, but continued to watch his friend wake.

The black-haired boy lifted one hand—the one he hadn't been sleeping on—and ran it over his face. His lids slid open slowly to reveal dark eyes and he began to push himself up with that same hand; the one serving as a pillow had apparently had fallen asleep.

Suddenly he seemed aware of the second presence and sharply turned to face his observer.

"Naruto." His voice just bordered surprise, then dropped back to its usual cold tone, "Don't you knock?"

"No."

With a sigh, the pale boy cast a glance at the shadows created by the fence, then the sun, and said mostly to himself, "Looks like it's about one…" He continued in his aloud thoughts for a moment, almost as if he wanted to explain himself, "I just get tired sometimes. I didn't expect you to come over." He shifted to look at the intruder/visitor, "How long have you been here?"

"Not too long." The boy relied, perhaps a little too quickly, because his friend looked doubtful, because he hadn't _meant_ to stare at his friend/enemy for nearly halfan hour.

He was sure he was blushing by now.

With a half-sigh the raven-haired boy turned to face the lawn and didn't say anything. Then,

"Why are you here?"

His mind had to snap back to the present and it was a moment before a reply formed, "Just wanted to say hi."

And he received an annoyed look for those words. He supposed maybe his friend didn't believe him, or, more logically, _did_ believe him and _that_ was why he was annoyed.

Maybe it was just the light, but he thought maybe his friend's pale skin held the tiniest bit of pink. He was sure it was just the light.

"I'm going home, then. See ya around." He knew he would be wearing out his tentative welcome soon, so he stood.

"Hn. Bye." The raven-haired boy replied, rather unexpectedly.

But the other boy walked along the engawa to enter the home of his friend and put on his sandals and went to his own home.

The black-haired boy watched him go, not sure if it bothered him that for the first time in a long time he had a peaceful seep under the watch of his best friend.


	12. Tenteki

**Disclaimer:** I don't want to own Naruto. Because I would then own Orochimaru. And he's scary.  
**A/N:** In addition to my sleep obsession, I have an obsession with dripping sounds. And eyebrows. -shrug-

**Tenteki 点滴**

_Drip _

His head was tilted upward, hair falling into his eyes, as he stared at the offending spot on the ceiling.

_Drip _

It was the rainy season in the Village, so naturally his home had been pelted relentlessly by the storms. But this had never happened before, not in all his memory. There had never been a leak in his roof.

_Drip _

It was an oddly disturbing fact. Now he would have to go onto the roof and fix it, but…

_Drip _

What about the other houses in the District? Did they also have leaks? Where they as battered and water-damaged? Where they worse than his house?

_Drip drip _

It was such a strange idea; for the first time to have to take care of his house. The house he had neglected for four years was now forcing him to acknowledge it.

_Drip _

_Drip_

But to be honest, he was afraid to. If he fixed one thing, he might fix another, and another, and another, and he didn't want to dig up those memories.

_Drip _

If the house began to look like how it used to, he would be forced to remember, and he didn't think he could handle too much remembering.

**_Bang_ **

His head snapped back at the sudden sound and cursed himself for letting his mind wander so. The dripping no longer seemed so intense in his mind. The front door. That was what had made that sound.

There were only two people who ever entered his home unannounced: his teacher and his (he never liked to admit it) best friend. Both lacked manners enough.

So he departed from that spot, where the water was periodically dripping into a small container.

The dark-haired boy rounded several corners until he reached the front door. At the very least, his 'guest' was polite enough to use that, rather than a side door. He was still at the end of the corridor, but he could clearly see a short blond making his way down the same hall, back to his moody host and oblivious to his presence.

At least he wasn't wet. He would have found his host _most_ inhospitable if he had been.

"Hn. It's you."

The blond turned to face the boy whom had sneaked up behind him, and suddenly the darker one felt something; like a cold slap to the face.

The blond's expression was just a bit… forlorn; not in its usual smile or even a cheerful mask. For some reason this idea did not sit well with him at all.

His face, though, revealed none of this, ever in its perfect and cold mask. He approached the blond nonchalantly, but his eyes carefully searched the other's features for a sign of... anything. Any sort of clue.

Instead of asking what he wanted to, he said, "What are you doing here?"

It wasn't until he stopped in front of the blond that he received an answer.

"Could I stay here for a while, Sasuke?"

His dark eyes flicked over the tanned face, but he turned away with an air of indifference. "Yeah. Sure. Just don't break anything."

"Oh. Well, if it's all the same to you, can I take a nap?"

The paler boy rose a brow at the rather unusual request, but gave a small nod. "You're using the couch." He didn't give reason for this, but the blond didn't seem to mind because he said nothing. They both walked to the living room, the owner of the house merely tagging along because he was supposed to, and the blond promptly collapsed onto the blue-gray couch.

A moment later something soft collided with his head and he reached up a hand to pull it away and look at it. It was a rather plain blanket, but the point was taken. He looked up, but the taller boy had already gone. With a sigh, he wrapped the blanket around himself and quickly fell asleep.

The dark haired boy stood just outside the living room, eyebrows drawn downward in thought.

_Drip _

He looked up and sighed.

He had things he needed to do. He shouldn't worry over anything other than the leak.

-

It wasn't until later that blue eyes flickered open and surveyed his surroundings blankly before things began to connect and he remembered where he was.

With something of a sigh, he kicked the blanket off and stretched before standing. His dark-eyed friend was no where to be seen and glancing at the clock he had been asleep for an estimated forty to fifty minutes.

He walked into the kitchen and was only half surprised to see his friend leaning against the counter and gazing out the window with a slight frown on his face. After a moment, the raven-haired boy turned to look at the blond with one of his unreadable masks.

Somewhat used to this treatment, he gave a nod and wandered over to the kitchen table. A moment later, his friend joined him.

"Naruto." The blond looked up, "Now you're going to tell me why you couldn't sleep at your own place."

The blond sighed because he should have known this was coming. "Your house was closer."

"Liar. You only sleep at my house if you have to. So tell the truth, moron."

The shorter of the two winced and finally, "Someone trashed my house. I just wanted to calm down before I cleaned it up."

The pale boy's eyes narrowed minimally and he said, "Is that it?"

He wasn't sure what answer he was supposed to give, so he just nodded.

The raven-haired boy sighed. "Come on, idiot. I'm kicking you out. We're going to clean up your place."


	13. Ikkounikamawanai

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Naruto, Anko would play a bigger role. I love that snake-woman.  
**A/N:** This one reminds me of the first three or so at the end. I apologize for the one damn hell of a long title and short drabble. (shame) But I like it...

**Ikkounikamawanai ****一向に構わない **

"Naruto." A pale boy looked up at his pacing guest—if he could be called that—while still sitting upon his couch and holding a scroll in his hands. "Why are you here?"

"Haven't you been listening to what I've been _saying_?"

The pale boy looked up quizzically at the blond that had ceased in his attempt to wear a hole through the floor.

"Not really." He replied, and looked down at his scroll again.

"Dammit, Sasuke!" The blond glared down at the other boy, blue eyes flashing in anger. "The _point_ of me talking is for you to _listen_!"

The pale boy heaved an annoyed sigh and glared up at the blond.

"Naruto. I don't care."

"What the fuck do you mean 'you don't care'?" The blond then shook his head violently and turned on his heel to leave. "...don't know what the _fuck_ I was thinking. Like someone like you wouldn't understand how I feel—"

"Naruto." The dark-haired boy called, "Just because I don't care, doesn't mean I don't understand."

The blond's head snapped back, unsure of what to make of the comment. Then, he decided,

"I hate you."

The pale boy rose a brow and smirked, "Good."


	14. Jissetsu

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Naruto. But I currently have a desire to own a Tobi keychain.  
**A/N:** I think the only way you can catch the massive parallels and irony in this story is if you know about Amaterasu, Tsukuyomi, and Susanoo, three Shinto gods. Especially Susanoo. If you don't, get acquainted with Wikipedia. This is short too. Sorry.

**Jissetsu ****実説**

"It's sad." The blond said in conclusion.

"It's just a myth," The pale boy sighed, "how can it be sad?"

"Because—Amaterasu and Tsukuyomi never speak to each other again or even _look_ at each other, and Susanoo fell from the heavens."

"Susanoo came back." The pale boy reminded him, "But it's just a fairy tale. Something parents tell their little kids. It's _stupid_." He was beginning to regret relaying the story to the younger boy.

"It's not stupid. They were siblings—they shouldn't be like that to each other."

The pale boy's confident countenance faltered slightly. "It's a _story_," he insisted, "If Amaterasu wasn't so volatile..."

"Well maybe Susanoo shouldn't have been such a bastard!"

The pale boy rolled his eyes, "Whatever." He set the myth book on the table. He leaned back on his hands, a gesture that indicated the conversation was over.

"At least Susanoo apologized." The blond muttered, wanting the last word.

The pale boy only shook his head and neither noticed that the book was opened to the tale of Yamata no Orochi.


	15. Shinkirou

**Disclaimer:** Let's be glad I don't own Naruto.**  
A/N:** Yes! Finally an excuse to put Sasuke in a kimono! Er... still writing short things... I'll get back onto my 3-page trend soon enough, I'm sure. I drew a picture for this (I had no scanner, which is why I took forever to post this. Sorry!); go to my profile for my deviantART link and the image is titled_ Sasuke - Shinkirou_. And if anyone saw the summary and was wondering, I am now making it my goal to reach 100 ficlets.

**Shinkirou ****蜃気楼**

He's only going there on a whim and out of nostalgia.

He idly kicks a rock as he wanders down the familiar deserted streets of the District, a frown on his features and hands in his pockets. With a small sigh he looks up and he can see the house in the distance, and he wants to think that when he gets there, things will be normal and his friend will be there and they can argue about something.

But then he remembers the bandage on his chest and reminds himself that he can't afford to think that way. He can be hopeful, but not delusional.

He finally reaches the gate and he hesitates before pulling it open. He closes the gate behind himself and looks up at the house.

He freezes at the sight he sees.

There is someone—someone he thinks he used to know—standing on the engawa, wearing an elegant black kimono with white flame patterns on thehem and sleeves, and he can't... he can't quite see this person's eyes.

"Sasuke?" He calls.

But the image has already evaporated into nothing.


	16. Chagake

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Naruto... those fire techniques would actually DO damage. -sulks-**  
A/N:** I've actually had this idea since forever, but this is the first time it's demanded to be written. It's a bit Mikoto-centric (Sasuke's mom; I love that woman) but I surprised myself with a few underlying elements. I rather like it... And look! Three pages! I was debating if I should put this in _Niwa_ or make it a seperate one-shot... I put it here because I felt like it... I hope you guys don't mind. -sweatdrop-

**Chagake 茶掛け**

He kept his gaze to the floor as he slid the door open and stepped inside the dark room without turning on a light. He allowed his gaze to lift slightly, just enough to see where things were, but kept his gaze away from the right wall, because he could see the bottom of a wall scroll there, and even though it had been four years since he had entered the room, and the bold, black characters were likely dulled by thick dust, he already knew the words and didn't want to look at them.

_(True happiness is an absence of hope.)_

Instead, he turned his head to the left, and he walked further into the deserted tea room.

He let his feet drag slightly, leaving a sharp, clear path where he had trodden, the thick dust dancing in the air of his wake, revealing formerly beautiful wooden floors and tatami mats. He hesitated, allowing himself to remember where things were, and he turned to the right—just slightly—and allowed himself to also lift his head more until he saw the shelf he was looking for; or rather, the object on the shelf. He reached out with both hands, carefully lifting the surprisingly heavy blue-gray teapot, more dust rising into the air at this action.

He pulled it toward his body, adjusting it so it sat comfortably in his palms before turning back toward the door with his head lowered again, facing slightly to the right now—the scroll was on his left as he walked back, following the trail in the dust.

With an almost-sigh of relief, he left the room and began to trek towards the kitchen and dining room. There was a small cupboard there, where his mother would store the 'good' dishes—even now he saw no difference between regular dishes and the good ones—and he idly used a rag to wipe down the teapot before he opened the glass cupboard door.

It was his mother's favorite teapot, one he had all but forgotten about until only a few days ago; and once it entered his mind it would not leave. Every time he stepped into the house, he immediately thought of the blue-gray ceramic. He didn't really remember his mother ever using it. Once there was a dinner party at his house, and she had served tea with it, but that was the only time he could recall it being used. Often times it would sit on display and his mother would smile briefly whenever it caught her eye.

_"My mother gave it to me."_ She had explained once. She loved it because it was all she had left of her family. She had been an only child and her parents had her late in life, passing away before her youngest son was born.

_(Just a cold and empty dream.)_

With a soft, almost melodious, _ching_, he set the teapot in the cupboard. Now, it would be stilled in there, where he could see it, rather than in the tea room where it was dark and deserted.

With a wince, he realized he forgot to close the tea room door and turned to change that fact.

He stopped, then, when he heard the front door swing open—it needed to be oiled, but he never got around to it—and then bang shut. He allowed himself to become sidetracked and found himself walking down the corridor. He had to stop short mid-step as he turned a corner, nearly colliding with something blue, orange, and blond. He scowled.

"_Don't_ run in my house." He said irritably, "And shouldn't you knock?" He realized they had this conversation before.

The blond seemed to sober slightly at realization of his friend's mood—but only slightly.

"I _did_ knock. You're the one that should answer."

"Don't be a moron. I would have heard you if you'd knocked. Your loudness competes with a stampede of elephants."

The blond glowered and replied, "Well you're always telling me to be more quiet, so maybe I _knocked_ quietly."

The dark-haired boy sighed and rolled his eyes. "Knocking is something you should do loudly. Moron."

The blond made an annoyed sound in his throat.

"So, idiot. What is it that made you feel the need to charge through my house?"

"Huh? Oh!" The blond smiled widely, "Iruka-sensei said he'd treat all of Team Seven at Ichiraku's. He got a pay raise and he wants to celebrate."

"Why would you celebrate a pay raise by spending money?"

"Because he _can_." The blond rolled his eyes, "You wanna go to Ichiraku or not?"

The raven-haired boy hesitated, uncertain, before he came to answer, "Sure. They sell real food, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Let's go!"

"Wait a second, okay?" He remembered the open door, and he felt the need to close it before he left. Without another word, he swept down the hall, back to the dark, desolate room.

He did not realize he was being followed until the blond spoke behind him.

"What's this?"

_(Promises are meaningless.)_

"...It's nothing."

He slid the door closed. But not before he caught sight of the scroll.


	17. Natsu

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Naruto... I'd so put a scene in there with Muraki and Orochimaru having a chat. Just for my own amusement.**  
A/N:** You know what? I'm going to go ahead and dedicate this particular drabble to my iaido (Japanese swordsmanship) teacher. Not only because he somehow has the stamina to put up with _me_ twice a week and teach me lots of things, but for some reason, whenever I'm doing iai, I get ideas, usually for this. _Sankyuu senpai!_  
I'm no expert in fight scenes... I hope it's not too bad. This is also pretty relaxed... -shrug-  
**  
Natsu ****夏**

It wasn't taijutsu. It wasn't even a fist-fight. It was more like... brawling. The two boys brawled (maybe wrestled?) in the overgrown grass of a lawn, matting down patches of it. The blond growled as he rammed into his sparring partner (could it be called sparring?), the dark-haired boy hitting the cool dirt with a small 'oof' before kicking his smaller opponent in the stomach. Hard.

The blond stumbled off the pale boy, coughing dryly, murmuring in a strangled voice, "_Sonuva..._"

The black-haired boy barely gave himself time to breathe, instead aiming a punch for the blond's face, intending to finish the fight.

He forgot that the blond was a quick healer.

The tanned boy tackled his rival, using his sheer mass to his advantage. They both collapsed to the ground; the pale boy's head connecting painfully with a rock—nothing serious, but that didn't stop it from smarting—and he took a moment to take a breath.

The blond was sitting on top of him with a smirk,

"I won."

The pale boy blinked up at him,

"What?"

The blond smiled widely, "I won. I pinned you for three seconds."

The boy stared at him for a moment—before punching him in the face. With something between a curse and a yelp, the blond propelled himself away as the taller boy sat up.

"What the hell was that for?" The blond snarled.

"Element of surprise." The pale boy drawled with a smirk and just a bit of irritation. "Never expect your enemy to just give up."

The blond pulled a hand away from the nose it had been clutching and glanced at it—there was no blood—before glaring up at his rival/friend. "Shut up."

The boy smirked in reply. They were in his backyard on quite possibly the hottest day of the year, and they decided to cool off by punching each other into oblivion. Where the logic in that was, no one knew, but it had kept them occupied.

"I'm so getting my air conditioner fixed..." The blond murmured. It was true the only reason he was there was because he had been getting restless in his overly-hot apartment. Not that his friend's place was much better.

The dark-haired boy walked over to the engawa and hoisted himself onto the wooden walkway, picking up his own water bottle, pointedly not handing the blond his. The shorter boy gave it not a second thought, snatching his bottle up and collapsing to the ground without an ounce of grace, sipping his beverage. The pale boy sat with his back against a pillar, allowing himself to relax and closed his eyes while still sipping his water from time to time.

Suddenly there was a soft, breathy laugh, the kind that gave away the utter exhaustion and amusement of whoever it was that was laughing.

The pale boy opened his dark eyes and glared down at the hysterical blond.

"What's so funny?"

"N-nothing! It's just..." He giggled some more before forcing himself to sober, "...that was fun."

The taller boy sighed and rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Moron."

The blond only laughed again.


	18. Ocha

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Naruto, the English dub would have better voice actors.  
**A/N:** Because I like matcha green tea powder and the tea ceremony—although you should keep in mind that Sasuke and Naruto are not participating in a full tea ceremony. I had to do a lot of research for this to make sure I got everything right... I've only been to a tea ceremony once, but it was pretty informal. This is even more informal than that one. I'm sorry if I confuse you in this one (I confused myself a little too). I tried to be as clear as possible. If anyone reading this is more familiar with the ceremony and sees an inexcusable mistake, please tell me so I can correct it.**  
**  
**Ocha 御茶 **

His lips twitched upward in an amused, mocking smirk.

"You're joking."

The blond huffed theatrically and crossed his arms.

"Fine. I'll go find someone else—"

"Why?" The pale boy cut him off, curiosity getting the better of him.

The blond hesitated before stating, "When I'm Hokage, I'll have to go to lots of tea ceremonies."

"So you want to learn."

"Well—yeah. 'Cuz I'm going _be_ Hokage."

The pale boy rolled his eyes.

"Why me? Aren't you afraid I'll poison you?"

There was a mumbled 'yes' before he gave an official answer, "I don't think Sakura would teach me and Kakashi-sensei..."

Enough was said.

"Okay. I'll teach you the basics. If you can even get that down." He smirked haughtily.

"Shut. Up."

With an amused snicker he turned on his heel, making for the glass cabinet residing in his kitchen and searched until he found a small tea ceremony set. It, technically, was his, but he had never used it. And—now that he thought of it, he had never been the one to perform the tea ceremony. He had always been one of the guests and always it had been someone else of his family—usually his mother or father—that served the tea. With a frown, he took the box and set it down as he rummaged around for a few more needed components, finally taking a large stoneware jar and placing it next to him.

The blond was watching with curious and uncertain eyes.

"I'm just getting the stuff out." The dark-eyed boy said as he walked to the wooden cabinets over the sink. "You don't have to do anything yet." He opened a cabinet and had to push a few things out of the way until he found a small jar of matcha tea powder. He frowned at the realization that he didn't have a _shifuku_, a silk bag to cover the jar. Oh well. He put the kettle on the stove—he wasn't going to bother with an actual fire.

"Sit at the kotatsu." He ordered, indicating the low table. His blond friend did as he was told, and he picked up the stoneware jar he had taken from the glass cabinet filled it with cold water. The kettle whistled and he took it off the stove and he began to arrange the objects carefully. He couldn't help but remember the one time his father had tried to teach him how to do all this—but back then he had tried to avoid his father's intimidating gaze as he set things up and had to try not to squirm or shake. His father had gotten impatient and called it short. He had tried not to feel disappointed.

He realized he had hesitated a moment too long in his actions as he had been caught up in the memory, and quickly finished his task.

"You usually have a big meal before this, but we're skipping that." He said as he looked around at his assorted items, in his mind checking them all off. He felt like he was forgetting something.

He looked up at the blond and indicated the jar with cold water. "This is called the _mizusashi_. It has cold water in it that I use to clean things when we finish." He lifted a gray tea bowl with intricate black designs on it. "This is a _chawan_. You'll be drinking from it." He wiped it and a scoop down with a cloth, then set the bowl in front of him and glanced up at the blond. He looked like he was comprehending everything so far. Picked up a ladle and poured some hot water into the bowl and rinsed the whisk, then picked up the bowl again and emptied it into another jar.

"That was to prove that the bowl and whisk is clean." He continued, picking up one of the clothes and drying the bowl. Despite himself he was beginning to feel uncertain. Was he doing anything wrong? Did he remember everything? It didn't matter that his friend wouldn't know—he would still have done something wrong...

He opened the jar of matcha powder and used the tea scoop, _chashaku_, to place green powder into the bowl. "Three scoops of tea per person." He said. He ladled hot water into it from the still-hot kettle.

He picked up a frail-looking whisk. "This is the _chasen_. If you just try to stir the powder, it'll lump together. You've got to whisk it so that it dissolves." He intoned, saying the same thing his father had said many years ago. He glanced up at the blond and was taken aback to find he was staring at him rather than his actions. His friend blinked, surprised by the sudden eye contact and nodded his understanding. The pale boy returned to his task. Satisfied that the powder had become a smooth paste, he ladled in some more water.

With a sigh, he lifted the bowl and held it out to his friend. "Bow when you take it," He instructed, then made a mental note to someday teach him how to bow better, "and then you're supposed to admire the bowl. Kinda... Hold it up and rotate it. Don't spill the tea!" His friend quickly righted the ceramic before any of the vibrant green liquid could fall to the floor.

"Now you can drink it." His mind was searching frantically—he forgot something, he knew he did... what was it? Was it really important? Was it trivial...?

"I don't like it." Those words pulled him out of his thoughts.

The blond crinkled his nose slightly as he placed the tea bowl on the table.

"It's too bitter." He elaborated, when he saw his friend's blank stare.

Passively, the pale boy lifted the elegant gray ceramic with one hand, holding it with only three fingers. "This is the thin kind." He said, referring to the tea, "The thick kind is much more bitter." His black eyes lifted from the elaborate designs. "I like it."

The blond scowled. "I'm not surprised that you would like it, the bitter taste..."

The dark-haired boy smiled thinly—perhaps it should not be called a smile—and he set the bowl down. "The last guest is supposed to drink all of the tea. That's you since you're the only one."

The blond scowled. "I know that." He eyed the bowl reproachfully.

The pale boy snorted and picked it up, wiping the rim. "I'm not letting this go to waste." He brought the bowl to his lips and tilted his head back as he drank the rest of the tea.

He then proceeded to rinse the bowl and whisk and tea scoop. He then rearranged everything carefully.

"This is when you talk about stuff. Political leaders talk about politics. But you're not supposed to argue." He leaned back on his arms. "You got all that?"

"No."

"You'll figure it out." He assured half-heartedly, turning his head to stare at something that his friend couldn't see. "There's spiritual aspects to it, but I don't know about any of that. You can probably find a book on it."

"How long has it been since you've done tea ceremony?" His friend asked suddenly.

He shrugged and continued to stare at something, "A while. A few years."

"I'm sure you did everything right. You're too much of a prick not to have."

He scowled, but couldn't help but feel a small bit of comfort at those words.

**A/N:** Whew, that was a toughy. I enjoyed writing it a lot. And yes, Sasuke did forget some things (four, to be exact). I think it's all rather trivial, but I'm no expert in this. Hopefully _I_ didn't forget everything other than what I meant to. I did my best. If you want to know what Sasuke forgot, ask in your review (if you're not logged in, please remember to put down your email).


	19. Chanoyu

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Naruto, NaruSasu (or SasuNaru, whatever) wouldn't just be _practically_ canon.**  
A/N:** The sequel to the last ficlet, Ocha. Brace yourself for more Japanese Words You Won't Remember.

**Chanoyu 茶の湯**

The pale boy sighed, but there was a tiny smirk on his face, and the blond wasn't sure if it was amused or approving or what.

"You want to try it yourself?"

He gave an uncertain nod.

"Okay. We'll skip all the little things before hand and go straight to how you're supposed to set things up and make the tea."

"Alright..."

The dark-haired boy set a kettle on the stove and then dug out his tea ceremony supplies and motioned for the blond to sit next to him. He then proceeded to explain what everything was for, giving a much more in-depth version than he had last time. "And get used to sitting in seiza," He cut himself off when he noticed his blond friend had shifted from sitting with his legs under him to sitting cross-legged, then picked up where he left off. At some point he stopped in his explanations and said,

"You're clueless aren't you?" He was about to protest, but his dark-eyed friend beat him to it, "You'll figure it out as you go. I'll help. The water will be ready soon anyway. We'll set up everything first. I'm not going to make you remember the order or what foot you have to start on—"

"It matters what _foot_ you start on?"

"Yes." He continued unfazed, "If you aren't totally scared off this time around, we'll learn that next time."

Then the kettle whistled and he quickly turned off the stove before instructing the blond on how to set things up. When at last the dark-haired boy was satisfied, he took his seat across from the blond.

"Ladle hot water into the tea bowl." He picked up the bamboo ladle—what was it called? He couldn't remember—and dipped it into the kettle, scooping up the water and dumping it into the bowl. He winced at how jerky his movements seemed—the other boy, he had been so graceful when he had done this.

"Rinse the whisk in it. Now dump the water in the _kensui_." He motioned to the container for waste water. "And dry the bowl with the _chakin—_no, the other cloth. Now hold the tea bowl and put three scoops of matcha in it."

The blond carefully held the bowl (it felt so thin and fragile) and with his right hand took up the scoop—his hand was shaking slightly and he was afraid he would spill some of the matcha, but he managed to bring it to the bowl without mishap.

"Put hot water in the bowl and whisk it."

He picked up the ladle again and poured the water into the bowl—was it too much? He picked up the whisk and began to move his wrist jerkily. Why wasn't he as graceful as his friend?

"Not like that. You're sloshing it too much..." A pale hand clasped over his own, making him stop in his movements. "Move in a figure eight. It's okay if you go slow." He let his hand be guided for a moment before the hand retreated and he began to whisk again himself. His movements still weren't as graceful—but, they were much smoother than before.

When he was certain that the tea was smooth he hesitated and glanced at his the pale boy. "Add more water. A cup and a half should do." His friend readily instructed.

He did so, then held the bowl out to his friend. The pale boy bowed shortly—he noted how he did it smoothly, placing his left hand down first, then his right and realized he himself didn't bow all that neatly—and then took the bowl. He took a moment to admire it, before drinking and passing it back.

He remembered this part and scooped cold water into the bowl and rinsed the scoop and whisk. He arranged the items as carefully as he could and turned back to his dark-eyed friend with a sigh.

"You suck." He declared with all the emotional content of a dead fish.

"Shut up." The blond growled.

The pale boy shrugged. "You'll get better."

The blond groaned an sat cross-legged and placed his head in his hands.

"I feel so sorry for those geisha... They've gotta be... masochists or something."

"No, they just have a higher intelligence than you."

The blond glared daggers between his fingers, "I will kill you."

"I'm terrified." The pale boy gave a feral grin.

The blond could tell this would escalate into a spar soon and he welcomed it.

He decided he didn't like the tea ceremony all that much, and he had a feeling his friend didn't like it either.

It made them remember their shortcomings.


	20. Hakubyou

**Disclaimer:** I may not own Naruto... but I currently have the strong desire to own an Amy Lee bobbly-head.  
**A/N:** Just so you know, this ficlet is AU, high school. Yes, fear teh bandwagon. I rather like how this one turned out. It practically wrote itself.

Hakubyou **白描**

Blowing a sigh from between his lips, he looked down sadly at his charcoal sketch before glancing up at the dark-haired boy across from him. It was then that he decided he hated art class with a fiery burning passion.

Their art teacher had decided it would be fun if the students had to draw another person in the class. Of course, god forbid they actually _choose_ their partners, so the teacher randomly paired them up. Leaving the blond to be stuck with the person he, quite honestly, loathed beyond all human understanding.

To make matters worse, his dark-eyed, fair-skinned partner hadn't turned up until the last five minutes of class—apparently he had a good excuse and wasn't punished, the _jerk_—and so they had no time to finish the assignment in class. Because the next class they were doing something else. Because the sketch had to be _quality_, and the teacher didn't want them to spend a mere five minutes making poor drawings. Because neither would come early to school, or stay late, or had corresponding study halls

This was the reason they were now sitting in a relatively empty room in the pale boy's house, each boy holding a sketchbook in one hand, and their chosen media in the other.

Cold, emotionless black eyes stared back at him over a sketchbook, a granite pencil tip resting lightly at the top of the paper.

The blond sighed as he glanced down at his charcoal sketch, and tried again to get the eyes right. He wanted to capture that deadness that he loathed so much, in just the perfect way.

As he failed again, he studied the features of his subject and then his drawing, and decided that it wasn't only the eyes that needed to be fixed. He scrunched up his nose and leaned the book on his knee as he searched for his gum eraser. Finding the glob of gray, he turned back to his drawing.

A pale hand snatched it away.

The pale boy's lips were pursed thinly and his cold eyes taking in every detail of the drawing. The blond felt his face heat up.

"H-hey! Give it back!"

The pale boy leaned away from the reaching hands, not relinquishing his hold on the sketch nor bothering to stand and move out of range.

And then the blond saw the other sketchbook.

It had been discarded when the other boy stole the sketchbook, and now the blond picked it up, almost mesmerized by the contents of the sketch.

It was blank.

Not a single line to show, not even a general outline of a face. It was completely blank.

He glanced up at his partner to find the pale boy still scowling at the picture of himself, and the blond flipped through his partner's sketchbook. There were lots of drawings, varying in media, and size, and subject, and complexity, but they were all well-done. It took him a moment to come to a disturbing realization.

There were no drawings of _humans_ in the entire book. A few animals here and there, a couple of plants, but mostly just still life compositions. It felt...

Lonely.

Page after page after page of views from windows, of architectural sketches, of bonsai trees, of even empty classrooms.

Not one held even a single person.

He looked back up at the sketch-thief.

The pale boy was frowning down at the poor rendition of himself, nose crinkled slightly and eyes searching, as if trying to see something that wouldn't come into focus. He seemed to have completely forgotten about the person he had stolen the sketch from. He placed a finger on the page as a marker and flipped to the beginning of the book and looked at each picture one by one.

The backgrounds were rendered sloppily and hurriedly, but the subjects were all drawn carefully, if still somewhat messily, and the pale boy's eyes thinned at the pattern in each of the sketches. Humans. People. Laughing, chatting, running, walking, staring at nothing. Every picture had a person.

It screamed the word 'Wanting'.

As he returned to the sketch of himself, he shook his head, as if coming out of a daze. He looked quietly back up at his partner and handed him the sketchbook.

The blond took it and returned the book he had taken. They did not speak as they returned to their respective sketches.

The blond found his charcoal moving easier this time. He formed the lips right; the nose was smooth and aristocratic. He paused and glanced up at his partner one more time.

The pale boy was biting his lip subconsciously as he focused completely on the drawing, eyes narrowed in concentration. Slow but strong pencil strokes formed on the page. For the first time, his smooth face showed uncertainty.

The blond glanced down at his sketch, at those imperfect black eyes that didn't say what he wanted them to.

He shadowed them over with black bangs.


	21. Seikouuki

**Disclaimer:** Thus far, there are roughly 60 NaruSasu-ish scenes in Naruto. If I owned it, there would be a whole lot more.  
**A/N:** You can blame Mashiro's _Almost Sucks_ for this (I can't take responsibility for my own actions. I won't deny this). I'm jealous of her writing style so I tried to imitate it a bit. I failed. I've got a love-hate relationship with this thing... I just feel like Sasuke's too OOC. Woe is me.  
And canonically, this ficlet can't exist... Since it takes place between the Itachi and the Retrieval arc... But we'll just ignore that glaring mistake.

**Seikouuki 晴好雨奇**

_The sun has made a veil of gold,  
So lovely that my body aches,  
Above, the heavens shriek with blue,  
Convinced I've smiled by some mistake.  
The world's abloom and seems to smile.  
I want to fly, but to where? How high?  
If in barbed wire, things can bloom,  
Why couldn't I? I will not die!  
_"On a Sunny Evening" - Anonymous, 1944

The rain pounded onto the slate tiles, dripping down each one in tiny waterfalls before finally rolling to the edge and plummeting down to the earth. Some droplets fell into puddles and from there they would further splash out.

His eyes were closed, water collecting on his lashes grouping together until they became too much and fell, sliding down his pale cheek. His hair clung to his head, his clothes sunken into his body, his flesh cold.

Ten paces away, no more, no less, was a large house, beckoning, calling, yet far too faintly to be heard.

So close to home.

And even further away.

A black throwing knife slipped out of the two fingers it had been loosely grasped in, plummeting straight down and embedding into the drenched ground.

And the rain was all he could hear; all the drips and rhythms, and it was all he could feel; odd, massaging patterns on his skin. Every pulse, every breath, was synchronized with this natural beat...

He hated the rain.

A wind blew and it whispered across his skin and he nearly shivered.

"You're going to get sick."

He opened his eyes and turned to regard the newcomer. What a sight he must look; soaked to the bone and pathetic. He found himself too numb to care.

The newcomer tilted his head to the house. "I'm raiding your kitchen. You coming?"

So close to home...

And even further away...

He shifted and it felt as if his bones hadn't moved in ages.

His friend held the door open for him.

-

The silence between them was thick and awkward as they sat at the table, and the gentle _zaa zaa_ of rain against the roof did nothing to ease it. The cup in the pale boy's hands had long since cooled without a single sip being taken, and his blond friend had given up on words.

He was too busy wondering, that, if he left, would the pale boy only go outside again? The minutes passed and he knew he had to do something, just to relieve this tension. But when he looked up and met those eyes, any words that he had formed died in his throat.

He really hated this.

"I'm leaving." He murmured, eyes shifting to the ground as he stood and walked toward the door to leave. A small rustle and he turned to see the black-haired boy standing and looking like he was about to say something.

A moment passed, and the fair-skinned boy turned away, moving to occupy himself with something else.

The blond turned back and left the house in the same silence that encompassed his entire visit.

Everyday the distance between them seemed farther, and everyday his eyes grew darker. He didn't want a Great Wall between them, but everyday another brick was added.


	22. Torikorosu

**Disclaimer:** Do I own Naruto? Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"

Torikorosu **取殺す**

"...and then, when you say 'Bloody Mary' three times, she appears and tries to kill you!"

His pale companion scowled, hands deep in his pockets and eyes focusing on his nearing home.

"Moron. There's no such things as ghosts."

His blue eyes flickered to the once-prestigious, now-dilapidated houses, to a lingering bloodstain, to the tall, pale, dark boy walking slightly in front of him.

"That's a lie."


	23. Makeru

**Disclaimer:** You know, I hear they've made a special asylum just for people who think they own Naruto.

Makeru **負ける**

"Tch. Moron. What are you doing?"

The blond peaked an eye open and saw a pale face scowling up at him.

"I couldn't find the key. Wanted ramen. You weren't home."

The blond watched in mild amusement as his friend's eyebrow twitched in what must have been annoyance.

"So you climbed a tree." The pale boy deadpanned.

"Well, you've got a good climbing tree."

"Whatever. Just get down." The annoyance was in his voice again. The blond only smiled.

"Why don't you come up here? Seriously, Sasuke, you never have any fun."

The pale boy scoffed, but his stance shifted slightly. The blond lowered himself a few branches.

"Do you even know _how_ to have fun?" He inquired, tone slightly accusing.

"No." Was the blunt response.

The blond rolled his eyes.

"Then _learn_. First lesson is climbing a tree. For fun."

It was the taller boy's turn to roll his eyes, but something flickered when he glanced methodically at the tree.

The blond became impatient, jumping down from the tree and taking his friend's hand, tugging.

"C'mon. What, don't you know _how_ to climb a tree?"

"Of course I do, moron." A moody tone entered his voice and the blond smiled. His friend had taken the bait. (Strange, he thought. He knew it would be.)

He tugged his friend's hand again—who stubbornly stayed rooted to his spot—before dropping it and clambering up the branches. "Bet you can't get this high." He jibed in a mocking tone.

A look of exasperation crossed his friend's face, but a moment later he'd climbed into the tree, footing careful but sure and in no time he was a branch above the blond, raising a brow expectantly at him.

The blond rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out before pretending to sulk, almost missing the gentle smirk on the other's face.

And for some reason, the pale boy felt like he'd somehow lost to his friend.


	24. Sanjuukyuu

**Disclaimer:** Yeah, yeah, I don't own 'Ruto. He's owned by Sasuke, blah blah blah...

**A/N:** Bonus points if you get what Sasuke means by 'bitter almonds'. He's kinda subdued in here. I guess the book he's reading is interesting. And does anyone else think that there's a whiff of shonen-ai coming from Sasuke's direction? Oh, and I feel compelled to whore off my NaruSasu story. Y'know; one with plot. It's called _Potential_, check it out if you want.

Oh, FFnet was acting funky last week; in case you didn't get an alert, there's a ficlet before this one.

**Sanjuukyuu ****三十九**

He yawned audibly, jaw snapping shut with a_ click _as he scowled down at the stove.

"Your water sucks, Sasuke. It's not boiling." He jibed and felt some level of satisfaction as his friend's eyebrow twitched it a hint of annoyance.

"It's only taking so long because you're watching." The pale boy retaliated, returning to his book with the mutter, 'total _moron_'.

The blond rolled his eyes in an attempt to appear aloof. "If I look away, the water might overflow, or something might catch on fire." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "But it's _your_ house, so what do I care?"

He let out a surprised yelp as something small and white was hurtled at him. He caught it with a fumble and looked down to see it was a teacup and any thoughts about how utterly random that was were cut off as a mock-polite, "Put that in the sink for me, will you?" was issued from his friend.

Unable to think of anything else, the blond did as requested, then abandoned his post at the stove to sit across from his friend at the low table. They were silent for a moment, then the blond tilted his head to catch the title of the book.

He blinked.

"Is that a book on poison?"

"Hn."

"You're so morbid..."

"I'm looking for a poison to make you shut up. How do you feel about bitter almonds?" The pale boy drawled, turning a page and skimming over the text.

"Bitter almonds are poisonous?" The blond asked dubiously.

"Not exactly." Was the vague response.

The blond waited in vain for an elaboration and when he received none, he huffed and leaned back on his hands and began to count the cracks in the ceiling. _One... Two..._

Both boys flinched at a sizzling sound and the pale boy scowled while the blond rushed over to the stove to tend to the boiled-over water.

"I _told_ you this would happen."

"Just make your damn ramen." The pale boy sighed.

The blond muttered crude obscenities under his breath as he added the artificial flavoring to the noodles and set the bowl on the table with a low _clank_. He twirled his chopsticks in the noodles and watched his rival/sometimes friend read.

"You're such a nerd." He scoffed.

His friend gave him an irritated glance, but the warning was lost to the blond.

"I think your grumpy because you don't eat ramen." The blond continued sagely. "It helps release more endorphins... whatever they're called..."

The black-haired boy sighed. "I like being grumpy."

The blond ate some of the noodles, slurping them noisily, if not for manners, then to irritate his volatile friend. After a moment he rested his chopsticks across the rim of the bowl and thoughtfully looked up at the ceiling.

For a moment the only sound was the slow turning of pages. Then a low sound as the book was closed, and slid across the table, finally losing the boy's interest. The blond could feel black eyes staring at him impatiently, demanding his attention.

"Thirty-nine." The blond said suddenly and there was brief pause before the dark-haired boy uttered,

"What?"

"There are thirty-nine cracks in your ceiling."

There was another moment of silence, then a series of familiar sounds that made the blond look down and narrow his eyes. The dark-haired boy smirked amusedly as he finished off the ramen and pushed the bowl back to his friend.

"It's too salty."

The blond rolled his eyes, and tried to scowl. He smiled instead.


	25. Karuta

**Disclaimer:** Every time I write Naruto stories, I have this... urge... to eat ramen. Which is why it's a good thing I don't own Naruto.

**A/N:** Number 25! We're 1/4th of the way there...

**Karuta ****加留多 **

It was clear he was on edge.

In a way, he expressed this more blatantly than anything else he'd ever shown; portrayed by his rigid shoulders, the erratic drumming of his fingers on the counter that seemed to start and stop suddenly, the slight furrow of his eyebrows, and the occasional glances toward the direction of the village center that seemed to exude annoyance (some would say it was _wistful_, in a way).

It was clear he was on edge. And his blond friend knew why.

It seemed that those who participated in the _matsuri_, the street festival, did not realize that the noise they made—the singing, shouting, _laughter—_found its way down the walkways of a dead District, bouncing off the hollow and hallowed walls, and could be heard almost perfectly in the central house.

And the _way_ it all sounded; like it was right outside. Like that shriek of laughter wasn't a fifteen minute walk away, but rather fifteen seconds. Like the District was alive again, brimming with life that seemed to never have existed in the first place. Like the laughter of ghosts.

And the pale boy, still standing at the counter, fidgeted and seemed to be on the verge of shivering.

It almost seemed like a cruel mockery, if it wasn't so obviously unintentional.

_"Haha, we have something that you can only dream of! Something you'll never have! Haha!"_

The blond had figured out immediately that there would be no going to the festival; whether to falsely immerse themselves in the festivities or to look at what they, indeed, did not have. Before, just a short time before the quiet torment had begun, he'd arrived at the house and before he'd managed to form any sort of word, a simple, 'I'm not going to the matsuri,' had sliced through the air like cold steel. He hadn't argued because that wasn't what he'd been planning to ask anyway.

And the blond wasn't quite sure what to do, because he hadn't thought of how the matsuri might be affecting _him_, and quite truthfully hadn't wanted this to be awkward, just... wanted to... be here.

It seemed like, for once, he didn't know what to say. Or rather, he felt like he shouldn't just say _anything_. But dark eyes passed over him briefly, gaze meeting for just a second, and it seemed like it was almost _expectant_ (because pleading just didn't fit with those eyes) and he knew that he was _supposed_ to say anything.

The words fell out of his mouth before he'd thought of them. "Hey. Bastard. You gonna _stand_ there all fuckin' day?"

A flicker passed over his face—maybe relief, maybe annoyance—before he rolled his eyes and muttered a casual, "Moron," with his usual scoff.

There was a moment, and then something like an epiphany hit the blond, and he pulled out a deck of cards, still residing in their red-decorated box with the seal unbroken. He'd bought them on a whim, on his way there, because he'd played cards with one of his teachers once and he'd had fun then.

"Want to play? I bet I could beat your ass."

A cool, confident smirk played upon that pale face and moments later they were in the living room seated around the tiny coffee table and the blond was shuffling quickly, if not sloppily, and he dealed.

They played for nearly an hour.

And the blond just _knew_ that his friend was cheating. Even if he couldn't catch him at it.

It was a short lull, a break of sorts, when they had stopped playing and the black-haired boy was staring with unfocused eyes into a past that the blond could not see. He wondered if this District had their own private matsuri or if they would join in with the rest of the Village. Both possibilities seemed likely.

Innocent, unassuming laughter rang down the empty walkways and for the first time he thought to was utterly _cruel_ to be alone on a day like this. It wasn't like they had a choice.

The blond picked up the cards again, shuffling them noisily. He breathed.

"I hate festivals too."


	26. Aozora

**Disclaimer:** It's a good thing I don't own Naruto, because I like too many conflicting pairings.

A cookie to _Weinerdog of Death and Doom_ for making a Naruto logo for getting to 25. It can be found here: http (:) (/) (/) pic2 (.) piczo (.) com (/) mythsoftime (/) ?g (equal) 1&cr (equal) 2

青空

There was a yawning silence, one of those uncomfortable ones in which you _know_ that at the end there will be a question you'd rather not answer but there was no getting out of it.

There was a long-suffering sigh.

"You should have told him to stop when he cut you."

The black-haired boy half-shrugged, keeping still the shoulder that the older man was clutching. The man frowned—although you couldn't really tell—and pushed up his student's sleeve a bit more to get a better look at the wound.

"And you were planning on wrapping this... how...?" He inquired, a trace of exasperation in his voice.

And another shrug, mutely saying 'I'd have figured something out' that only earned a disapproving glance in return.

The silver-haired man turned back to the table where things had been neatly arranged, and picked up a swab of cotton to begin to clean at the long cut along the boy's shoulder.

"You shouldn't let your spars get so out of hand." He said matter-of-factly, in a way that one would say 'the sun is shining'.

"It's none of your business and it's a shallow cut anyway." The boy spoke at last, glowering at the attention, but doing nothing to stop it.

The teacher pointedly jabbed the long red mark, rewarded with a tiny grimace and scowl, before continuing. "It's my business when two of my students can't display proper teamwork—which it is!" He insisted when he saw the dark-haired boy begin to argue. "It's not teamwork when one of the teammates doesn't tell his sparring partner that he's hurt."

The boy made an annoyed sound and did not argue. It wasn't clear if he agreed and didn't want to admit it, or if he disagreed and simply did not want to fight. They were silent then, the boy letting the man clean and dress his wound with little more than a scowl in protest.

It was only when the last knot was tied in the white bandage and the sleeve was rolled back down over it that things seemed relatively normal. The boy shoved the man's hands away and sulked his way over to the engawa, ignoring the chuckle that followed him.

He stepped onto the slightly dirtied wood of the engawa, frowning when his foot scuffed along a plank that needed to be sanded, but ignored it and leaned against a pillar and idly looked up at the clear, cloudless sky.

It was early spring.

He heard someone shift behind him, and though he did not react outwardly, he felt uncomfortable at having been caught unawares. A hand clapped on his shoulder, and he glared up at his teacher by habit, and, likewise, his teacher was unaffected.

"We're all going to Ichiraku's tonight. You should come."

As predicted, the boy gave no indication that he would, but the man seemed to smile anyway. He leaned just a bit closer, as if to whisper a secret despite the fact they were alone.

"And Sasuke; next time Naruto hurts you accidentally, tell him. By punching him, if you feel so inclined." And with that the man disappeared, leaving the boy alone again.

He stared up at the deep blue sky.


	27. Negaeri

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Naruto, Sakon and Ukon would have miraculously survived and continued to be sexy with their green lipstick. :mourns:

Negaeri **寝返り**

Perhaps he should have noticed something was wrong sooner.

The way his friend seemed just a bit... colder than usual; lacking his usual air of casualness and having it replaced by a certain tension that wasn't there before. Perhaps he should have realized that the way he moved and acted and spoke was all wrong. Any minute hints of playfulness that were usually there were gone.

If he had noticed that something was wrong sooner, he'd never have challenged his sometimes best friend to a fight.

It had been short, brief, lightning-fast, and the blond had found himself on his back.

Those pale hands wrapped around his throat and squeezed. His initial reaction was not fear; they'd gotten each other in choke holds before, and they'd both always let go after a moment—they never wanted to lose a good sparring partner. But then the grip tightened and his windpipe closed and it was more than just a few _moments_. He looked up, uncertain, confused, maybe even afraid, and those _eyes_ had just a bit of... _something_ in them; too transfixed by his own actions.

The blond didn't move for as long as he could, wondering—hoping—that it was just a really bad, tasteless joke. But then his broad hand pushed away at his friend's(?) arms, not wanting to be frantic, but almost there.

And then that trance seemed to break and his friend released his hold on his throat and stood mutely; and the blond stood too, rubbing his throat blankly, looking for something (anything) in his friend's eyes. But the pale boy had this way of looking right at him without his eyes being seen.

After a moment, the blond said,

"I've gotta leave..."

And he did. He left in that awkward silence, not without a few... almost worried yet confused glances back, but he left and he wouldn't come back for a whole week, still reeling from the... curious happening.

He left that dark-haired, pale boy standing there, on the hard dirt, with one cool hand drifting up to meet the burning mark on his neck.


	28. Takamura

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Naruto, there would be no goal to _save_ Sasuke. Just to molest him.

Takamura **竹叢**

"What is that?"

The boy dressed in blue looked up at him, a fleeting frown passing over his features. He turned back to the storage box in front of him, dark hair falling into his face.

"Found it. In the attic. Belonged to my great grandmother, I think..."

The information was divulged quietly and in an almost thoughtful manner. Great grandmother... That would mean she was Before, right? And the blond could tell anyway, the way his friend didn't speak in a melancholic tone that betrayed just a bit of lost anger; rather, he seemed almost fascinated by his find, like a little kid that had discovered an heirloom and was waiting for his mother or father to come and explain what it was and share memories behind it.

At least, he thought that was how it went; he wasn't sure himself. And it wasn't ever going to happen anyway, no matter how much it really should.

So he tried to make up for it and sat down next to his friend and peered inside the box.

Paintings. From what he could see, some where more traditional (he wasn't surprised) ink paintings, while others were colorful oil or acrylic paintings.

"Can I...?"

He began, but wasn't sure. They may be Before, but he knew how stingy his friend could be about things that belonged to his family. But his friend gave him a shrug and nod and he reached into the box and—carefully—pulled out the first painting. It took him a moment to realize he was holding it upside down, and he flipped it over. It seemed to be a quick painting of a flower garden, and the sloppy lines held a bit of charm to them.

Somehow, time passed quickly as the two boys went through each painting one by one, both silently studying the picture, coming to an opinion, and then setting it aside to reach for the next one.

At some point, the blond pulled out a picture of a bamboo forest—a feature uncommon in their Village—and his friend spoke,

"None of them are very good."

The blond started at his friend's statement—that he could actually say something even remotely negative about someone in his family.

"It seems more like they were just practicing or fooling around than actually painting..."

It took the blond a moment, and he found he agreed. None of them were really any masterpieces, just like the artist had some free time and a brush and this was what came out.

"I still like them," He told his friend, and the paler boy rose a brow. He shrugged. "What are you going to do with them?" The blond questioned, glancing at the paintings on the ground. His friend shrugged again.

"I guess I'll just put them back in the box."

The blond glanced around and thought it was a shame, yet still reasonable. Even if they were something precious, made by someone of his family, they couldn't really be kept out. There were too many of them. At the same time, they couldn't be thrown away; it was the reason why they'd been placed in the box in the first place. The blond hesitated and held up the picture of the bamboo forest.

"Can I keep this?"

Just one painting to be kept out in the world, no matter how unprofessional. One homely, quaint picture to hang on a wall and not be put away.

There was a hesitation from the pale boy, and the blond anticipated a blunt refusal, but instead he licked his lips and said, "Sure." And the blond was about to give something akin to a thanks when his friend beat him to speaking, "Just don't rip it."

"I wouldn't do that, jackass!" The blond exploded, earning a sharp smirk from his friend. Muttering curses under his breath, the blond helped his friend collect the paintings, neatly piled up and stored in the box. The pale boy dusted off his hands, as if he had accomplished something (perhaps he had) and mumbled something about getting something to eat.

The blond glanced down at the painting that still lay innocently in his hands.

He wondered how many things of this Clan were forever lost to the world.


	29. Tensai

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Naruto, it would be weirder and less coherent.

The title is a play on words. And I don't really like the ending...

Tensai **天災 (****天才)**

"That's really weird."

The dark-haired boy could only nod in mute agreement as he and his friend stood upon the engawa, watching as a huge flock of birds swarmed across the sky, mocking black clouds and spiraling upward together.

"Why do you think they're doing that?" The blond inquired, and the other boy could only shake his head, eyes fixed on the sky, before replying,

"I don't know..."

"Well, people say that animals know when natural disasters are gonna hit. Do you think they know something?"

"...Maybe a tornado or earthquake. But those are pretty rare here..."

There was a silence as they stared, captivated by the anxious actions of the animals, listening to their squawks and trills. (All together, it sounded very much like screaming, but neither commented on that.)

Finally, the blond spoke. "It doesn't look like they're going anywhere to escape or something like that. They're just circling... Like something scared them."

Suddenly the mood lightened as the darker boy scoffed and turned to walk away.

"Must have seen your face."

The comment took a moment to sink in before a loud, "BASTARD!" sounded in the yard, followed by an amused snort and what might have been the beginning of a scuffle that was quickly diffused.

Instead they ended up sitting side-by-side, leaning against the frame of the house and watching the strange spectacle.

"Do you think it's because he died?"

The paler boy shifted, "You mean the Third?"

The blond nodded, still staring at the sky. His friend leaned back again.

"No. Something's bothering them. Something must have come to upset them."

They were both silent for a long moment.

The pale boy stood suddenly and walked inside without a word, his friend curiously hurrying after him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." But he hesitated. He shook his head. "I've gotta go..."

The blond smiled nonchalantly. "Me too. Going to Ichiraku!"

His friend snorted and shook his head at his energy and they both left, soon parting ways. But they both had the feeling something was about to happen.

Something big.


End file.
